William Deverell - Trial of Passion

Now we head towards Breadloaf Hill to the fair grounds. Cars line the road as we come around the final switchback atop the hill, where a couple of hundred smiling islanders have gathered, all bedecked in their country finery. To whom do I report to take on the duty of overseer of children’s games? Where is Margaret?

A stage has been slapped up by the wall of the community hall and trophy winners are being summoned to it. Best handicrafts, best goats, best float in this morning’s parade. The master of ceremonies, Scotty Phillips (island bootlegger, respected businessman, president of the local Lions Club), has an unnaturally loud voice, which he delights in amplifying through the microphone.

“Best overall veggies. Who wants to guess?”

Ah, there she is at the front, walking sprightly up the steps to the stage, accepting a trophy in the shape of a phallic corncob.

“Bloody obscene,” Malcolm says. He laughs: a throaty, sensual sound.

“Now, you just stay right here, Margaret,” Scotty booms. “You got three more coming in a row.”

I am exuberant in my applause each time, easily outdoing Malcolm, who probably must protect his sensitive hands.

“Egg toss coming up in ten minutes,” Scotty announces, “so choose your partners.” Margaret flits from the stage with her booty, then turns and starts when we descend upon her.

“Arthur, goodness, you made me jump. Malcolm, it’s so good to see you. How are you?” She seems flustered and, laden with her trophies, hugs me awkwardly. After I relieve her of them, she takes Malcolm in a disturbingly close embrace.

“You look great,” he says as they part.

“A few years older, not much wiser.”

“I’d been meaning to come over. Too busy picking up all the pieces.” Pieces of what? He is not talking about broken china. .

“So. You’ve met. You two.” Margaret seems unable to find words. “Okay, well, um, I’m off duty at last, let’s go sit down. It’s been a crazy day. Already it’s been a crazy day.”

Trilling like a nervous songbird, she takes us each by an arm and marches us to a roped-off area near the crown of Breadloaf Hill, where we sit on makeshift benches. Ginger Jones, our waitress, serves us beer and pop. “Watch out,” she whispers to me. “Emily’s on the prowl.” She looks the three of us over, sees possibilities for scandal here; who will make it with whom?

Malcolm hefts the corncob trophy. “Where’s the battery compartment?”

From Margaret’s throat issues a raunchy chortle. I laugh nervously.

The emcee’s booming voice: “Arthur Beauchamp. Arthur Beau-champ. Wanted at the kiddies’ three-legged race.”

“Hurry back,” Margaret says. She waves me away and leans towards Malcolm. I hear her say, “What was Africa like?”

I have passed out one red ribbon, one blue ribbon — and, to the ten third-place winning teams of the three-legged race, ten white ribbons (the judicious practice on Garibaldi: No child may be allowed to return home without a share of glory). I have presided as marshal over the tug of war (a titanic struggle during which seven-year-old Peggy Kane bit ten-year-old Ronnie Cruller on the hand, causing his team to lose). I have wisely refereed the scarecrow contest, awarding the cherished Rosekeeper Trophy to twelve-year-old Winston Bigelow for his clever rendering of a black-robed vampire (carrot-fanged, the mouth drooling catsup).

Between events, I wander about, seeking vantage points to observe Margaret and Malcolm: They haven’t moved from their table except to fetch more beer, and they are far too gay and chatty. But they have former times to share, a pot of memories to stir up.

The fair organizers, duly impressed by my Solomon-like adjudications for the children’s games, reward me with a substitute’s role as judge of the pie-baking contest (replacing Nelson Forbish, who is in the first-aid tent, sickened on caramel apples and candy floss). I am led to a table laden with a dozen succulent entries, apple, rhubarb, blueberry, lightly crusted, oozing their syrups. I nibble at each, muttering words of praise, wondering why my appetite has suddenly vanished. When will I be allowed a little uninterrupted taste of Margaret? When does Malcolm go off to play his guitar?

I pin a ribbon on the proud chest of Mrs. Nancy Stiles, creator of a zesty concoction of apple and blackberry, and I wander off again. They are still in the beer gardens, absorbed in each other. I feel a stranger, outside their space. I am exhausted from the tension of this much-anticipated day, dispirited, my energy sapped by jealous worry. Beware. She’ll turn on you.

The day’s brightness has begun to fade, and a brisk evening breeze has whipped up, tossing scraps of paper across the lawns, sending smoke spiralling from the barbecue pit behind the community hall, where a queue has formed for the sacrificial lambs. I stroll past the volunteer fire fighters and their polished old red truck, past the RCMP exhibit, a canopied anti-drug display. It is deserted but for Stoney, who is standing in the lee of the wind, brazenly lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. He joins me, his breath reeking of marijuana.

“You gotta catch this sunset, man.”

Lethargically, I follow him past the beer gardens, our passage unnoticed by Margaret and Malcolm, who are laughing over some ancient escapade at the Earthseed Commune.

The sunsets from Breadloaf Hill are fairly held to be among the finest on the island; barren of all but a few Garry oaks, our knoll offers a vast canvas south and west, beyond islands and channels to the green spine of Vancouver Island and the towering snowy tops of Olympic Park.

But the sunset is disappointing; the wind has chased the clouds, and we see only the darkening sky and the red orb of the sun. It disappears behind the sea like fading hope, and blinks out like a light bulb. Three ravens flap darkly past our view like winged omens, uttering imprecations, gliding, swooping, then disappearing among the steeples of Douglas firs below us.

Now comes a distant guitar melody, and I turn and see Malcolm Lorenz at the microphone, entertaining folks who have filled their plates and are nestling down on blankets before the stage.

“You been home yet?” says Stoney.

“I stopped in quickly.”

“Did you, ah, check the garage?”

I have come to recognize a certain inflection to Stoney’s voice when he is about announce one of his catastrophes. There have been ill auguries: the sudden cold breeze, the ravens with their raucous warnings, Zoller with his curse.

“Why?”

“Well, ‘cause we finished the roof. Dog and me worked day and night. Lots of overtime. Won’t cost you extra.”

In that case, he is hustling for a big tip. But I am relieved that his news is good. “I’ll do an inspection in the morning.”

Stoney clears his throat. “Only one other thing. .”

I wait for him to complete. Deer have breached the garden fence. The house has collapsed. Stoney’s garage burned down, with the Phantom v inside it.

But Stoney just shrugs and walks away. “Well, you’ll find out.”

I utter a soft oath. I am about to pursue him, but hesitate when I hear Margaret’s voice from behind me.

“Here you are.”

She peeks mischievously from behind a scraggly oak tree, a child playing hide and seek. Laughing, she hugs the tree. I fear she has had a little too much to drink. Now she is at the top of the knoll, looking out at the sunset’s afterglow. She spreads her arms, empress of all she surveys. She is flushed — with the beer she drank? Or has Malcolm kindled more than memories?

“I’m feeling so spaced out today.”

A poor drinker, she seems flighty, gawky in her movements.

“Let’s go down and listen to Malcolm, then we can eat and dance, and you can tell me all about the trial.” She takes my arm. “How are you feeling, you look a little blue.”