A Celibate Season. Carol Shields

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ heard the same happy rumour about Sanderson, etc., from—guess who?—your mother. (By the way, her cold is better. She specifically asked me to tell you, since she’s too busy to write, she says, until after the Fall Fair.) She stopped by on her way over to the church hall to bring us a coffee cake and an eggplant casserole. In some ways it was unfortunate we didn’t hear her pulling into the driveway. She let herself in the front door and caught us in the middle of carrying the drafting table up the basement stairs. Greg had the top end and I had the bottom and we were negotiating that narrow spot by the landing, Greg his usual grunting, unaccommodating self, Mia screaming at us from the top of the stairs to move to the right, move to the left, and me blustering away, I’m afraid, in my loudest sergeant-major voice and turning the air a smokey blue—in all, not exactly a Walton family picnic. Suddenly your mother appeared over Mia’s shoulder, looking pale and puzzled and asking what in sweet heaven we were doing and were we sure that Jocelyn would approve. (I hope you do, my beauty, because I’d sooner dynamite the thing before moving it another inch.)

      To smooth things over I asked her if she’d care for a sherry, and true to form and to no one’s surprise’ she said, “Well, maybe just a teeny-weeny one.” I also offered Greg a cold beer. (After all, that drafting table weighs a ton, and he is seventeen years old, and I was having a beer myself.) I wish you’d been here to hear the curtness with which your firstborn refused this kindly meant offer. “No thanks,” he said (sneered), and walked over to the fridge and poured himself a large, wholesome glass of milk, which he drank eyeing me and my beer all the time with a look so pious it made me wonder if you and I maybe overdid the puritan principles. Your mother chimed in with, “I don’t think a teeny-weeny bit of beer’s all that harmful”—this while I topped up her glass.

      The rain stopped for a whole ten minutes or so, and we were able to take our drinks out on the deck. (It’s so green here right now. God, even the air is green. Do you suppose it’s healthy breathing green air?) Your mother wiped off one of the deck chairs with a tea towel and settled down. She’d been talking to some friends, she said, and just happened to hear something about a firm called Sanderson and Something—had I heard of them?—that they were about to take on half a dozen new architects. Naturally I asked her precisely who had given her that information, but she just waved her glove in the air and murmured something or other about keeping an ear to the ground. (Do you think, now I’ve emerged from my cinder-block cellar, that I too will acquire an aptitude for crucial ear-to-ground skills? I can only hope.)

      Sunday afternoon, after a lunch composed entirely of pecan coffee cake, Mia went roller blading with the Finsteads, those new people across the way, who have, they told me when they picked her up, a series of family outings planned—bowling next week, hiking the following Sunday, and perhaps an excursion to Squamish in November. Greg disappeared too, saying he had “plans.” I pressed him. What plans? Well, he might go down to the rink. Was there a practice on? Not exactly. Who was going to be there? Coupla guys. When would he be back? Dunno. (I loved this kid once.)

      I must revise and type my CV for Sanderson et al. and catch today’s mail. We all miss you!

      Love,

      Chas

      P.S. Quit worrying about how you’ll do in the big time. My experience with bureaucracy is that anything above mediocre is considered brilliant. You’ll do fine.

      Château Laurier

      Sept. 11

      Dear Chas,

      I’ve phoned down to the desk three times hoping for a letter from you (pretending an urgent message), so will give you an update on my adventures with the Commission while waiting.

      After our initial meeting, the four of us had a get-acquainted luncheon at the Parliamentary Restaurant, which I found a tremendously glamorous thing to do. (Maybe, despite all our Vancouver years, I’m still just a Williams Lake gal.) It’s a beautiful room with arched colonnades and windows looking out on the Ottawa River, and round tables, and all sorts of important people, and less-important people watching the important people and feeling important doing it. (I am among the latter category.)

      I nearly yelped as we went in to find myself right behind the environmental minister (I never dreamed he was that tall!) and then noticed that his companion was the Minister of Justice (I never dreamed he was that short).

      As soon as we sat down Jessica clawed around in a pocket of the awful pants and produced a rumpled pack of cigarettes (oh Lord! My sinuses!) and Senator Pierce—Vance—was rude to her about it.

      “Where’s your character, woman? I thought you were quitting.”

      “Yer not smokin’ any more, Van?” she drawled. “Whatsa matter? Lose yer nerve?”

      “No, found my senses.”

      Dr. Grey and I smiled weakly at one another and he said, “The buffet is rather good. I would recommend it.”

      In the end we all went to the buffet—which was superb!—and drank a couple of carafes of white wine. I noticed that Vance didn’t look around or wave to anyone, and since everyone else seemed to spend a lot of time leaping up and trying to catch the eyes of others, I wondered who it was he was ashamed of. I mean, I’m still wearing my navy and grey uniform, but I blend in pretty well here, clothes-wise. (Matter of fact, I’ve become sufficiently de-dazzled to recognize that Ottawa is not the haute couture capital of the western world.)

      Okay, I can sympathize with Vance for being a tad reluctant to draw attention to Jessica.

      Not that Jessica was about to let him get away with it. “Hey, Van,” she bawled, at one point. “Don’t you know anyone? What’s yer name—you, the legal counsel—”

      “Jocelyn,” I said weakly

      “Jocelyn—she’d probably like to meet some heavies.”

      “She’s met you.”

      “Shit, Van, you’ll have to do better than that—” and just then who should walk in with the Minister of Finance but Senator Kennedy—yes! U.S. Senator Kennedy. Up here to look (enviously, I presume) at Canadian medicare. You can imagine the stir that rippled through our hallowed eatery! And who do you think he recognized? Jessica.

      “Well, well, surely not Jess Slattery. You turn up everywhere, just like a bad penny, don’t you?” he said. “How come you’re eating subsidized food?”

      “I helped pay for it, didn’t I?” Jessica shot back, and then she introduced him to Dr. Grey and to me (I stood up. Should I have?) and pretended to forget Vance, who was doing a knee-bend halfway between standing and sitting and said, in French, “Oh, et un faux senator, M. Pierce,” and Kennedy smiled and murmured, “Enchanté!”

      Everyone, even Jessica, speaks fluent French—how I wish mine were better! At that point I forgot how to say anything but oui, which is why I drank too much wine, I guess.

       Sept. 12

      Still no letter. The hotel clerk no longer answers with, “Yes, may I help you?” He just murmurs, “Nothing.” Regretfully.

      Must finish this. Not much more to tell. When we finished lunch Vance shot back the silver-clasped cuffs of his elegant French shirt and looked at his watch and said he had a three-o’clock appointment, but maybe we could get together a little earlier tomorrow СКАЧАТЬ