William Deverell - April Fool

The someone-to-meet would be the dark-haired gamin, who is grinning jauntily at Arthur, her T-shirt challenging him to rise up. One of those radicals who infest good causes with their banners and slogans-how is it she is friendly with the Anglican minister? Reverend Al may be a conservationist, but he is a Tory.

Arthur isn’t looking forward to this encounter. For the time being, he’s saved by a squad of reporters-tipped off, it would seem, to catch the morning ferry-who emerge from the woods like guerrillas, armed with cameras and microphones. They zero in on Todd Clearihue, who, Arthur senses, wants to rush off to seek his restraining order.

“Mr. Clearihue, what’s your next move?”

“Cooler heads will prevail, I am sure. One of the parties up there, Margaret Blake, she’s a fine lady, I have a lot of respect for her. Oh, you may not know her husband-this is Arthur Beauchamp, the lawyer.”

“Mr. Beauchamp! I covered the Hogarty double murder, remember me?”

“Of course I do.”

“What’s your reaction to this, Mr. Beauchamp?”

Arthur raises his noble nose above the half-circle of microphones, points it at the platform, at Margaret. He wants to ask, What is my reaction, my dear? She puckers her lips and pops him a kiss. He feels a thump, message received, her need to do this. I can’t live with surrender.

“Pride is my reaction. Pride in my wife and in my community. What you are witnessing is the brave and predictable response of the good, honest, caring folk of Garibaldi Island, angered by the prospect of the rape of a virgin forest. It ought to be added to the national park system, a gift of nature for all the people of Canada.”

This brings applause from the Gwendolers. Arthur is a little amazed by what he has just said, but the words came naturally, unforced, unrehearsed. He hopes the press won’t assume he’s a spokesman for the protesters.

Nelson Forbish is at his ear, tugging his arm. “Save some for me, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“In your next headline, Nelson, you might call it the Battle of the Gap.”

Nelson jots that down. A reporter asks, “Mr. Beauchamp, how do you feel about your wife being up there?”

“I love her deeply, naturally I have a concern for her well-being. Of significant, though lesser concern is my stomach. Margaret is a cook of unparalleled artistry.” He gets his laugh. He’s playing to the jury, it’s an ingrained habit.

The microphones swing away, seeking an alternative point of view. Zoller puts a comb to his hair. He has positioned himself well, but is being ignored in favour of Corporal Al.

“Officer, what do you see as your role?”

“Well, I see my job as keeping a low energy level.” Todd Clearihue is on the move, but Corporal Al spots him. “Todd, I understand there’s dynamite in one of those trucks by the road, and I’d like it parked at the quarry until you can drive it off the island.”

“Let’s see what the courts have to say about that.” His ire is starting to show.

“Todd, I’m taking responsibility for lives here, you ought to be too.”

“Sure, you’re right, I’ll look after it.”

And Clearihue strides off, past Reverend Al, past the pixie, who taunts him: “Speaking of lives, Clearihue, get one.” That provokes no response, and she hollers after him, “Thanks for the ride, sorry I couldn’t fulfill your fantasies.”

The media avoid her, sensing, like Arthur, that danger lurks here, a left-wing crank, a loose and libellous tongue. A reporter asks Corporal Al, “Will you be calling for reinforcements?”

“No, that’s just going to raise the energy level. No need to, as long as everyone acts responsibly.”

Reverend Al engages the press, a tutorial on saving green spaces, a list of species harboured in Gwendolyn, the Garry Oak, the Phantom Orchid. He ends with a touch of rhetoric about the eagles: “the national symbol of our friends and neighbours in the United States of America.”

A land not far. Arthur can see the San Juan Islands of Washington from his farm, the white pinnacles of the Olympics. This story could wedge its way into the news there, human interest to stir the patriotic heart. In design, in timing, this has been a well-orchestrated media event that somehow seems beyond the production skills of his fellow Garibaldians. There was outside help.

Felicity Jones calls from above. “I would now like to read a poem I wrote.” She shoves Cud playfully. “Without any help from you . It’s called ‘I Am a Tree.’” The imagery is priapic, the tree as penis, stately, wedded to the earth, sap rising from its roots. Arthur endures-the poem is too simple to be banal.

As the recital ends, Felicity’s mother strides into the clearing, looks about, and whacks Nelson’s camera away when he attempts to catch her grim expression.

“Felicity Jones, I want you down from there right now. You are not repeating another year of school.”

Tabatha is a weaver, a single mother, fiercely protective. Her daughter is in equally fierce rebellion. Arthur has a sense that the Save Gwendolers are about to suffer a minor publicity setback.

Tabatha waves a finger at Cud, yelling, “You are out of her life. Last weekend she came home at two o’clock smelling of, of…I don’t know what.”

“Tequila, my love. Maybe some pot.”

Reverend Al moves to dampen this embarrassing debacle, puts an arm around Tabatha, murmuring, “A quiet moment of reflection.”

A rope ladder flutters from the platform. Felicity clips onto a safety line and morosely begins her descent. Watching her causes Arthur’s stomach to tumble, and he allows Reverend Al to pull him away. “Hard to believe, but I’ve been missing your croaky voice at hymns.”

Arthur apologizes: the weather was too pleasant last Sunday. He casts a look up: Felicity halfway down, Margaret bent over the railing, Cud Brown positioned behind her buttocks. This repellent scene is blocked by foliage as Arthur is led to the priest’s young guest, perched on a windfall cedar, fusshing with a cellphone. “Name is Lotis Rudnicki,” says Reverend Al. “Member of your tribe, old fellow.”

What tribe? A Polish surname, but one makes out brushstrokes of Africa and Asia. The international woman maybe, her genes fed from many streams. Under the spike hair, energetic oval eyes that betray the arrogance of youth. Rose-petal lips, marred by the lip ring. As the current argot has it, she is in your face, with Che Guevara and her revolutionary slogan. She snaps her phone shut, flashes Arthur a practised smile.

“Lotis is our mouthpiece,” Reverend Al says. “She’s with Sierra Legal Defence.”

“You’re a lawyer…?” Arthur can’t hide a hint of incredulity.

“Almost.” A large confident voice from this small package.

“How does one be almost a lawyer?”

“I wilt under cross-examination, I get called to the bar in May.” A mocking drawl, an indifferent shrug.

“I trust I won’t be premature in offering congratulations.” Why has Arthur taken on this formal tone? He is almost icy. It’s not the T-shirt, not the lip ring (but why would she want to mar those plump smiling lips?). It’s the youth. That is what’s in his face, the whole bag of youth and hope and naivete and boldness and ill-understood idealism wrapped up in this cheeky little woman.

“She’s been staying in our cottage,” says Reverend Al. “Giving us advice.”

“Ah, yes, tutorials in direct action.”

“Eco-guerrilla warfare,” Rudnicki says. “Fought with sound bites and close-ups.” She cranks the handle of an imaginary antique camera. “Angle on Felicity Jones as she blows her hero a kiss, then follows her mother out of the frame.”