Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(67)
But there was little more about himself or his whereabouts. Parsing the letter for clues, Arthur took note of two references. A comment about a Chinook wind. That suggested the western prairies, which were occasionally embraced by that warming wind from over the Rockies.
“I am beginning to realize that the city made me feel small,” he wrote. That was the other clue — he had likely found some rural refuge.
LET WHAT COMES COME; LET WHAT GOES GO.
Driving home from St. Mary’s church in his pickup, Arthur instinctively ducked at a roar from overhead, then looked up to see one of Syd-Air’s float planes descend toward the coast. A charter, not one of its regular runs. Maybe for the Baba, whose term, Arthur had heard, was up.
The day was crisp but sunny, warm for the third Sunday of November. He couldn’t wait to get out of suit and tie into something casual for this do-nothing day. He’d dutifully attended Reverend Al’s service, patiently listened to his depressing sermon, a call to arms against “phony spirituality exported from La-La Land.” The tirade merely seemed to frighten the diminished congregation of the aging faithful.
Al had boldly announced his candidacy to run for Islands Trust, but no one answered his call to join him on the anti-Transformers ticket. Arthur expected Al would be beating the bushes all day to find someone, anyone, to team up with him before tomorrow’s deadline. Arthur had hurried off after the service, fearing Al would approach him to run. A distasteful three-year commitment that no sane person would undertake, but Al was prepared to martyr himself.
On turning in to his driveway, Arthur was startled to see the float plane at his dock, Margaret alighting, smiling, waving. He almost drove into the snake fence as he swerved into the farmyard.
He bounded out, and they met on the grassy ridge above the beach and hugged wordlessly until the plane lifted off. “What a beautiful surprise,” he said.
“Escaping from the zoo for a couple of days. I was missing the island, the farm. Missing you.”
“And I you.” Arthur was too flustered to say more. He was dazed, delighted, and puzzled. Why wasn’t she in Halifax? Wasn’t Lloyd Chalmers’s recount tomorrow? She hadn’t flown six hours here on a whim. He wanted to believe she was declaring her commitment to him, to their marriage.
But their time would be limited. “I hope you remembered that I’m due in Calgary tomorrow evening,” he said.
“I know. We’ll have a day and a night together.”
He found himself nervous about the night, his carnal role as husband, as adulterer.
§
Arthur tidied up the house as best he could while Margaret showered and changed into outdoor wear. She needed to be outside, she’d said, “to breathe the clean Garibaldi air.” A walkabout on a crisp fall day would help put cold, wet, gloomy Ottawa out of mind.
So after sitting down to chicken sandwiches and goat cheese as guests of Niko and Yoki, they went on a tour of the farm: the animal pens, the garden, the beach, Blunder Point, and her favourite spreading arbutus.
Arthur talked all the while, keeping to safe subjects, the local news: the Transformers’ livestock sale, their political ambitions, and their cutout candidates. Silverson’s power-tripping bothered Margaret, who had welcomed his political support but was now finding him and his cohorts “a little too creepy for comfort.”
She had read Lou’s letter over lunch, but had little to say about it. She did not share Arthur’s dilemma about the proposed six-month adjournment, was keen to get the trial on and over with.
She ordered him to bury the slander suit for the one day they had together and suggested a trek to the Brig for a drink — “I really need one.” En route, she remained mostly silent, watching for sheep poop, holding his hand as he led her up the north pasture trail, the shortcut to Centre Road.
So far she’d made no mention of Chalmers or the recount, and Arthur felt she was holding back to avoid reopening wounds. But he too was being skittish about it, and felt silly, and finally said, “I expected you to have gone to Halifax.”
She pulled him to a stop and looked squarely at him. “I thought about it. It didn’t feel right. That’s when I realized I wanted to be with you.”
“Thank you, and I love you all the more for that. And I want you to believe that your . . .” A struggle for the right word. “That your episode with Lloyd Chalmers is forgiven and forgotten. One can’t be haunted by sorrow and guilt.”
He beat back an impulse to blurt out his own sin. “I know, Margaret, that tomorrow’s recount is important to you, and I wish Dr. Chalmers well.”
“It is a very big deal, Arthur. The Liberals will be begging at the door. They might be able to count on the NDP to support the wishy-washy stuff, but they’re bruised and angry. So Yates will have to suck it up and go green to keep us onside. Goodbye Coast Mountains Pipeline. Never mind, enough of that.”
Then, as they climbed the knoll above Hopeless Bay, she said: “I’m actually thinking of getting out, Arthur.” She was gazing at the valley below, a nest of small farms, a soft mist rolling through the pastures toward the sun-sparkled bay with its funky dock and store and bar.
They remained there a while, Margaret confessing to her growing distaste for the political life — the nastiness, games, and energy-sapping tension. She had paid her political dues, had a worthy successor in Jennie Withers, and she longed for a return to her placid island.