Put on the Armour of Light (12 page)

P
eter
was in the sanctuary, removing his temporary desk and drafting equipment from the platform so that services could take place as usual the next day. He was not altogether happy at this task for, as he had said to Charles, “How can I get my work done if you keep interrupting me with needless distractions?” At which Charles had simply smiled.

The sudden scraping of a key in a lock at the back of the church made Peter look up; he jumped off the platform and had walked halfway up the aisle to investigate when one of the large doors to the narthex opened. A dark figure loomed in the sudden brightness of the open door.

“Steady those horses, Kauffman. Don't want to break it before we get it in. Just wait till I see if Mr. Lauchlan's around.” The figure emerged from the sunlit door frame and squinted at Peter.

“Hello there.” Noting Peter's cautious look, he held the key up so that Peter could see it. “Mr. Lauchlan gave me a key. Eklund. Erling Eklund from Martland and Asseltine? With the lumber for the new beam?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. McEvoy. Peter McEvoy.” Peter shook Eklund's outstretched hand. “I'm — well — helping out for a while here.”

“Don't suppose you could give us a hand to get ‘er in?”

“Yes. Of course.” They went out and, after some head scratching, decided that the new beam should be stowed temporarily in the parish hall, where it would be out of the way. Then Peter, Eklund, and Kauffman wrestled the timber off the wagon and carried it around the side of the church and to the back where the door of the parish hall was located. With some considerable back and forth manoeuvring and raising and lowering of the long timber over obstacles and through door frames, the three men managed to carry the beam into the large hall where they lowered it to the floor on the long side of the room.

They rubbed their hands together to remove the sawdust and restore circulation and the air was filled with the comforting odour of newly sawn wood.

“There,” said Eklund. “It'll be fine here until Monday morning. I've told Mr. Lauchlan that I'll send a crew over then.”

“I'll work with them. Charles — Mr. Lauchlan — will be busy, so I volunteered.”

“Oh, that's grand. You're staying here then, in the church?”

“Yes. Yes. Just for a while.”

“And you've got some experience of building?”

They continued to talk, Eklund asking questions and Peter being pleasant but giving only as much information as necessary.

“Oh, yes. It's a great town, Winnipeg. Lots of opportunities for a man that's willing to work,” Eklund said. He pulled a flask out of his breast pocket, uncorked it and took a drink from it. “Of course, you have to prove yourself, sometimes. Bosses here are tough. I am myself, anyway.” He took another swig. “I won't stand for any laziness in a man. Want some?”

Peter said, perhaps too quickly, “No. No thanks.”

“Sure? It's McQueen's Select. I probably paid too much for it, but there isn't a finer whiskey.”

“No, thank you, no. Really.”

Eklund shook his head in mock wonder and replaced the stopper.

“Say, I left something here the other day. I'd better go and find it.” With that Eklund put the flask on the edge of the small stage platform near where they were standing and strode out of the hall.

A flush of blood rose in Peter's face and drained away almost as quickly, leaving him pale and clammy. The flask was only three feet from him. He looked around the room and while he was doing that his hand rose up toward the flask as if drawn by a force outside of his body. He jerked it back and staggered a step backward with the effort. With his chin lifted, he sucked air through his nose, trying to smell the whiskey, trying to draw a few atoms from the stoppered flask. A look of angry disputation, of inner war, came over his face and he began to pace back and forth. Then with great effort, he backed away. Each step seemed harder than the last one. Now he was whimpering, and tears were welling in his eyes. Somehow he got himself turned around and with his back turned to the object that was calling to him; like Circe on the rocks he broke through the inertia binding his legs and stumbled into a run. Out of the hall, down the passageway and into the kitchen, where he ducked his head under the pump in the sink and frantically worked the handle while the cold water gushed over his head. Finally his arm grew weary, slowed, and then stopped. After staring at the drain in the bottom of the sink for a while he raised his head and slicked back his hair. There were no towels in the kitchen, only tea towels on a rack by the sink.

He walked in the direction of the janitor's room, but before he could get there Eklund walked out of the room and started slightly at seeing Peter.

“Well — uh — there you are,” Eklund said.

“That's my room.”

“Is it? Sorry. Stupid of me. I didn't realize. Left a tape measure here on Thursday and I thought it might have made its way there.”

“Not likely. I haven't seen one lying around.” Peter tried to ignore the fact that he was dripping on the floor. “I'll ask Charles when he comes back.”

“Thanks. It was a good one. I'd hate to lose it.”

“You left your flask in the hall.”

Eklund looked bashful. “Wouldn't do for that to be found lying around, would it? I'll pick it up and be off then. I'll drop by Monday to get things started.”

“That's fine. I'll make sure things are set up for you.”

Later, when Charles returned, they were making, or attempting to make, scrambled eggs and toast for supper in the kitchen.

“I could swear this was the way my mother made scrambled eggs.” Charles stared at the watery curds of egg in the frying pan.

“Maybe the hot water was a mistake. Here, let's drain it off. We can pretend they're poached.” Peter took the pan and carefully strained off the greasy liquid into the sink. “Once I lived for an entire year on sardine sandwiches, lunch, and supper.”

Charles made a face. “How could you stand it?”

“It didn't seem to matter. It wasn't food I was after.”

They spooned the egg onto plates already furnished with toast, only slightly burnt at the edges, and bacon lovingly supplied by Mrs. Armitage, whose husband owned a butcher's shop on Dagmar Street.

“That fellow — Eklund?” Peter said. “He delivered the new beam this afternoon. We carried it into the parish hall.”

“That's good. Did he say when they can they start?”

“Monday morning, he said. Do you know Eklund at all?”

“Not really. We've chatted a few times.”

“Yes, he is a bit of a talker. He didn't seem to know who I was.”

“No, he does. When we were taking the beam out on Thursday he was asking about you. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.”

Peter looked puzzled.

“What's the matter?” Charles said.

“He offered me a flask of whiskey. If he knew who I was, why would he do that?”

Charles was caught by this piece of information with his fork suspended between his plate and his mouth. It hung there for a moment and then he put it down.

“He offered you what?”

“A flask of whiskey. We were chatting. I think he was trying to find out if I know my way around saws and hammers.”

“I take it you refused?”

Peter sighed and mopped up some egg with his toast. “This time. I honestly can't answer for the next time. It's almost as if …”

“What?”

“As if he was deliberately doing it. Trying to get me to drink.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he just doesn't like me. I seem to rub people the wrong way. Maybe he thinks I should be in jail.”

“Eklund doesn't seem to be the vindictive type.” Charles scratched his chin in a ruminative fashion. “He was asking a lot of questions about you the other day. But I recall that he was sort of sideways about it.”

“‘Sideways'? Well, then there's the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“He said he left something here a few days ago — a tape measure — and he had to go and find it. He left his flask on the platform and then later I saw him walking out of our room.”

They looked at each other for a second. “Was anything missing?” Charles said.

“I don't know. I haven't had time to look.”

They went to the room. At first it seemed to be as they had left it that morning. They looked through the drawers of the dresser and neither could see that anything was missing. Then Peter remembered that he had tossed his shaving things on the bed that morning. Now they were on the dresser. And Charles realized that there was something strange about his drawer. It was actually neater than he had left it that morning.

“I think everything's been taken out and then replaced. It's probably easier to replicate neatness than my particular kind of squalor.”

“It's hard to imagine anyone wanting to steal something of mine,” Peter said.

“Or of mine. I think Eklund probably earns twice as much as I do.” They wandered back to the kitchen and Charles sat down to his rapidly cooling eggs. He started eating them in a distracted fashion and Peter followed suit.

“Naw mindidivna. Niversah!” Charles suddenly said, his mouth full.

“Pardon?”

Charles swallowed. “It wasn't vindictiveness; it was diversion. He knew he wanted to search the room so he needed to distract you somehow.”

“Well, it certainly worked. But if there's nothing missing, what was he looking for?”

“I can't make that out either. Oh —” Charles suddenly thought about the strange package in his desk drawer at Mrs.Gough's. With everything that had happened, he had hardly given it a thought.

“Oh?”

“I wonder,” Charles said.

“What is it?”

Charles looked pained. “That's just it. I can't tell you.”

“I see. I understand.”

“No, really, Pete. I can't tell you. I promised someone I wouldn't. I haven't even told Maggie about it.”

“Oh well, if you haven't told Maggie, it really must be a secret.”

Charles ignored the teasing inflection. “But who knows if that's what Eklund was looking for. For all we know, he just likes to root through other people's belongings. I've heard of stranger hobbies.” Charles sighed. “Things are getting very confusing.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?”

“Just keep an eye on him, I suppose. He didn't take anything. Next time he comes around tell him to stay out of our room.”

“I don't trust him. I don't think he wishes me well,” Peter said.

“But it might have nothing to do with you. More to do with him, if you see what I mean.” Charles shook his head in frustration. “I don't really know what I mean, either. But I do know we're not going to solve this tonight. Let's do the dishes. I've got to get changed.”

“Going out?”

“Yes. To the All Charities Appeal Dance. It's the first of a week of events to benefit the Appeal. We're part of it, so I promised to make an appearance. Want to come?”

“Oh, no. No, I don't think so.”

“There won't be any liquor served.”

Peter snorted. “That's what you think. Just don't look too closely at the men who say they're going out back for a smoke.”

“Ah. Yes, I see your point. Wash or dry?”

“Wash. You never get the bits in the corners.”

C
harles
arrived at the Young Men's Christian Association rooms on McDermot Avenue and paused in the gentlemen's cloak room to brush the dust off his best suit. The wind had been gusting wildly and had virtually blown him in the front door. He had promised to do an hour of chaperoning in the tea room, which for tonight's festivities was lit by candles and decked out in potted palms and other assorted greenery laid out to make a winding path for people to stroll in. For the price of two five cent tickets, young people could walk through the make-believe jungle maze in relative privacy. This was especially useful for young ladies and gentlemen of the Methodist persuasion, whose elders frowned on the dancing taking place in the assembly hall next door. Charles knew the rules. A couple could disappear for a minute or so behind the largest palm trees. If they had not reappeared after two minutes, he was to — not too softly — clear his throat. If this didn't flush them out, he was to take a plate of sandwiches down the winding path and engage the lucky couple in conversation, at which point the young lady would excuse herself politely and ask her escort to take her back to the well-lit assembly hall.

Tonight it was early in the evening and he had no customers as yet. He was humming to himself as the orchestra tuned up and chatting with Mrs. Underwood, who was setting out the tea and coffee things, when he saw Rosetta Cliffe struggling through the front doors weighed down by camera case, tripod, and assorted photographic paraphernalia.

“Mrs. Cliffe, good evening.” He hurried toward her. “Let me help you in with this.”

She looked relieved and handed him the heavy camera case and the tripod, blowing an escaped strand of hair out of her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Lauchlan. I'm all for charity but next time I think I'll have them come to me instead of lugging my whole studio here. Could you take these through while I get the rest from the cab?” She tucked a bolt of drapery under one of his arms and a rolled Turkish carpet under the other. “And careful with my bread and butter, please.”

Charles carefully wound his way through the keyed up swarm of organizers with his load until he found the corner of the assembly hall reserved for Rosetta's temporary portrait studio: full portrait for ten dollars, of which five dollars went to the All Charities Appeal and five to Rosetta. He let the carpet and the drapery bolt fall softly to the floor then set down the camera case and tripod. He was putting up the sign for the booth when Rosetta appeared with more draperies, a cardboard backdrop painting of a gothic window, flash powder and flash lamp, and what appeared to be a genuine bear skin.

“Oh good — they've given me a couple of chairs. Mrs. Ormiston is a wonder at organizing. Yes, that one will do quite nicely for the portraits. I hope I won't have much time to sit in the other myself.”

“I'm chaperoning the promenade for the first hour. I'll do my best to direct some traffic your way.”

“Then I would be in your debt, Mr. Lauchlan. And not for the first time, either.”

“I told you, Mrs. Cliffe. We're called to bear one another's burdens.” He gestured at the heap of equipment. “The literal ones and the not so literal.”

“Well, I'm not very good at saying it, but I haven't forgotten your kindness to me in the past,” Rosetta said as she fussed with her draperies and backcloths.

“You're most welcome.” He cast a glance back at the tearoom. “I haven't got much to do in the tearoom yet. Can I help you set up?”

“All right, yes. But you may regret this.”

Charles began to take the camera out of its case but Rosetta elbowed him aside. “I'll set up the camera. You see to the chair and backdrops.” She gave him precise instructions as to the angle of the chair in relation to the camera and sent him off to find something to drape the backdrops on. She was delighted when he came back with a folding Chinese screen. Charles unrolled the Turkish carpet and set the chair on it in front of the faux window with the Chinese screen slightly to one side of the chair. Then he looked on, bemused, as she threw various sheets of drapery onto the screen, stood back, adjusted this and that, stood back, pulled the draperies sideways and let them fall. Then she took the bear skin and tossed it on the floor, stood back, picked it up and tossed it down again from another angle.

“Texture,” she said. “You can never have too much texture.” In the end she decided the bear skin looked best when thrown rakishly over the chair.

Guests had begun to arrive at the dance in larger numbers. Charles saw Maggie come in with a number of other girls, all with wind-blown hair and flushed cheeks and voices pitched high. He watched the flurry of activity as they disappeared, then emerged from the ladies' cloak room, having hung up their wraps, straightened their hair, and done a final primping in front of the mirrors. Mrs. Heavysege was stationed at the entrance to the assembly room carrying a basket of dance cards with small beribboned pencils attached, her imposing bosom festooned with the sash and rosette of the All Charities Appeal. Maggie and her friends crowded around to get their cards and boys were already hovering, waiting to ask for the third waltz or the first quadrille after the refreshment break. Maggie made Trevor wait until Henry McAlistair had taken his choice. Though Henry had a bad stammer, he was an amazingly fluent dancer and especially adept at two-steps and cake walks. Maggie motioned for him to turn around so that she could use his back as a writing desk, which he did, and she wrote his name against the dances he had requested.

“I'll s-see you at number eight then, Miss S-S-Skene”

“No need to be so formal, Henry.”

Henry smiled happily and blushed. “M-Maggie, then.” He went off in pursuit of Ellen Farquarson.

Trevor asked for the dance card and the two of them laboured over it, Trevor's head with its fine light brown hair flopping over his forehead and almost touching Maggie's darker hair. Charles counted the number of times she entered his name.
One, two, three, four, five. Six.

“Wait, leave that one blank,” Maggie said. She had seen Charles at Rosetta's booth and waved to him. She excused herself from Trevor and came toward him. He took his leave of Rosetta.

“Well, have you changed your mind?”

“About what?”

“About dancing with me. And don't say that, ‘a praying knee and a dancing foot never grew on the same leg,' because I know you don't believe it.”

It was an old argument between them. Like most ministers he knew, Charles had refrained from dancing since he had been ordained. He didn't really disapprove of dancing on the part of his parishioners or his own part for that matter, but they expected him to abstain and he saw no reason to distress them. Maggie argued that this was hypocritical.

“You have very modern ideas about my dancing, for instance, so long as I have the right attitude and observe decorum. You concede that the Psalms tell us to sing
and
dance during worship, therefore God does not disapprove of dancing,
per se
. So why will you not dance with me?”

“All right, I will.”

“What? Wait, is this a trick?”

“We can dance in the gymnasium. We can hear the music fine in there. Do you have the first one free?”

Maggie covered her consternation by looking intently at her dance card. “Well, yes. But — I don't know. Goodness! You've certainly done an about face.”

Charles was brisk. “Come on now. You've worn me down. At least we can lay to rest your claim that I refuse to dance because I don't know how.”

“This is a trick, isn't it?”

He did not reply but walked over to the door of the darkened and empty gymnasium, opened it with a flourish, and beckoned her to enter.

“Prepare to be instructed.”

“We'd be alone there. Isn't that a little unseemly?”

“Have you forgotten that I am an official chaperone?” He pointed to the red rosette with trailing ribbons on his lapel.

She had some colour in her cheeks now and a glint came into her eye. “Very well. Let tongues wag. I am a woman of my convictions.” She sailed through the door in what she hoped was a regal fashion. “And we'll see who instructs who.”

“Whom,” Charles said as she passed him.

He walked down the shaft of light cast by the open door, stepping confidently across the basketball court markings. Having no windows, the room was otherwise dark and smelled faintly of sweat and paste wax. The wind was buffeting the building and the high ceiling, which they could not see, creaked and groaned in unexpected ways. The orchestra struck an opening chord. Charles raised his arms; Maggie moved into them and laid her left hand lightly on his shoulder while he settled his right hand at her back. She put her right hand into his outstretched left and tilted her chin up slightly, angling her face toward her raised left elbow. It was a waltz. They balanced back and forth to establish the rhythm.

“Here goes,” Charles said and began to lead her into the turns, tentatively at first. They were fighting each other to maintain the rhythm. Away from the light of the door they could hardly see each other as they turned in the cool shadows.

“Not perfect quite yet,” he said. “It's been a few years.”

Maggie didn't reply as she was faintly surprised. She realized that it was not necessary to “help” him lead her as she was used to doing with many boys with whom she danced. Now they were turning quite easily and strongly with the music and she could concentrate on doing her part, leaning back and balancing her weight against the steadiness of his arms.
Pity no one can see us,
she thought.
We're dancing so well.

They relaxed more into the turns and he tried a few balances in place to break up the turns. When Maggie had taken dance lessons, the students had been instructed to chat amiably with their partners once the rhythm of the waltz had been established. But now talking seemed superfluous. She was more intent on the dance, on the exhilarating pull of the turns, on floating outward then feeling him pull her strongly and confidently back. They whirled through the light of the doorway and she saw that he was smiling back at her. He quieted the turns a little, making them smaller. Why not a pirouette? He raised her arm and she twirled underneath it and they laughed. They had only just settled back into the waltz hold when the music ended. The turn they were in slowly subsided.

“Well,” said Maggie, catching her breath. “I think all dances should be held in dark gymnasiums.”

“Maggie? Maggie is that you?” It was Trevor. She dropped her arms to her sides, turning in the direction of the door, and left Charles holding only air.

“I'm here,” Maggie said and both she and Charles walked quickly toward the door. “Charles was just giving me instructions on the latest waltz steps.”

“Oh,” Trevor said, surprised. “Oh,” he said again. “Good evening, Charles. Maggie, I think the next one's mine. We'd better hurry.”

“Hello, Trevor. Yes, yes, go ahead.”

“I think I could probably use a little instruction in the two-step,” Maggie called back to Charles while Trevor was leading her away on his arm.

“I'm a little out of my depth on the two-step, I'm afraid,” Charles said. “Besides, I have to take up my watch in the tearoom.” But she was already too far away to hear him distinctly, as Trevor and she threaded their way through the crowd at the entrance to the assembly room.