Now and in the Hour of Our Death (7 page)

She finished her tea.

The men were still going on about a broken fence in the back ten acres. She looked fondly at her brother, the big lig, as he held a teacup in a fist like a ham. He was one of the best, and she loved him dearly. Not the way she loved Eamon but for his humour, his ability to put off any job, like fixing the kitchen door, his way with the horses, and for always being her big brother.

“You're back, are you?” Cal grinned at his sister. “You were away off on a powerful daydream.”

“Daydream? Listening to you two
craic
on would put anyone to sleep. I know that the fence needs fixing in the back ten acres.”

“I'll do it on Monday, Erin,” Sammy said. His tone was ingratiating. “We've to see to the horses today.”

She could see his gaze resting on the front of her blouse. Let the wee bugger look. He'd never said a word, never tried to touch her, but she knew that Sammy McCandless wanted her. If it was Sammy's desire for her, not a commitment to Ireland, that kept him in the Active Service Unit, who cared?

Anyway he
was
in, and, as the Provos were fond of saying, “The only way out is feetfirst.” They meant you either died in battle or, if you showed the least sign of disloyalty—and wanting out, except under very special circumstances, like an illness, was considered to be disloyal—they'd take care of you themselves. Permanently. Sammy was in whether he liked it or not, and as long as he did his job right—and fair play to Sammy, he was a damn good armourer—he'd nothing to worry about. And that was really why he was here this morning.

“So, when are you going to do the other thing, Sammy?”

Sammy hesitated and glanced at Cal.

“Tell her, Sam.”

“I'll need your Land Rover and the horse trailer tonight. I was going to steal a car in Derry, but I nearly got lifted. Bloody great peeler come over and asked me what I was about.”

“Damn,” said Cal. “I'd rather you weren't using ours. You have to get across the border, and there's a checkpoint. We'll need to change the number plates.”

“Stay here for your supper,” Erin said, “and the three of us can see to that after.”

“Fair enough.”

“Usual suppliers in the Republic?” she asked.

“Aye. I'll pick up the shipment in Ballybofey, run it over at Clady, and take them up to the churchyard at Ballydornan. The ArmaLites and Semtex won't come to any harm in the grave, and if the Brits do happen to find them it'll throw them off the scent about this place.”

Cal growled. “Don't get caught. Not in our 'Rover.”

“I'll not get nicked.” Sammy grinned.

Watching him grin, Erin thought that she'd been wrong about Sammy looking like a ferret. He was more like a weasel.

“See you don't,” she said, “or you'll end up in the Kesh.”

“If I do, I'll get to see your Eamon.”

“Don't be too sure of that. He's…” She bit her lip and saw Cal sharply shake his head. They hadn't told Sammy about the impending jailbreak. Informers had been the curse of every Irish independence movement.

“He's what?” Sammy asked.

Erin gave him her most come-hitherish smile. “Nothing.”

“Come on, Erin. Something's going on, and you won't tell me? Do you not trust me?”

Cal rose and looked down on Sammy. “Listen. You know the rules. The less folks know, the less they can tell.”

“I'd never tell nothing.”

“That's what we thought about that shite Christopher Black. Bloody supergrass, singing his head off like a fucking canary. Thirty-five of our lot lifted on his word.”

Sammy stood and leaned, taking his weight on his hands that were splayed out on the tabletop. “Don't you make me out to be like Black. You think I'd turn informer?” There was spittle on his lips. “Fuck you.”

Erin put her hand over Sammy's. “Not at all, Sam. It's just the way we do things. You know that. We will tell you when the time's ripe.” She looked up at Cal. “Sit down, the both of you. You're like a pair of strange roosters in the one barnyard.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Cal said, “if we can't trust you, who can we trust?”

Sammy seemed to be satisfied. “I'm sorry I lost the rag there, Erin, but…”

“Never mind.” She squeezed his hand. “We trust you, Sam, and we've to rely on you tonight.”

Sammy forced a smile. “The night? Just you wait 'til you see. It'll be easy as playing marbles.”

 

CHAPTER 6

VANCOUVER. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1983

From her window, the grass of the playing fields of Lord Carnarvon Elementary School shone dew-sparkle bright. The four baseball diamonds looked like pieces cut from the same brown pie. On the verges of the avenues surrounding the fields, the birch trees' September leaves had the dusty, dying look of pages in a book left too long on a library shelf.

Fiona leaned back in her chair and looked around her office. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling on two of the walls of the little room. Files of minutes of meetings, textbooks that were being used by her classes, books about pedagogy, chief among which was a battered copy of
Bloom's Taxonomy
, filled the available space.

Her desktop was cluttered with memoranda, current files, letters awaiting her signature, and next week's schedule. In her in-box, the pile of paperwork she must deal with before Tuesday crouched like a bad-tempered cat, daring her to reach out her hand and risk being clawed. At least the pile wasn't growling at her. Och, well, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Tuesday was next week.

Three chairs stood in front of her desk. She had a parent-teacher interview scheduled this morning with the Papodopolous family. Young Dimitris was a holy terror, and his parents, both Greek immigrants, had not a word of English between them. The family should be here soon.

The high-pitched shouts of the Little League baseball teams playing a postseason recreational game outside sought no permission before intruding through the open window.

“Batter, batter, batter.”

“Good eye. Good eye.”

Fiona had learned enough about the game to understand that “good eye” meant one team was encouraging their batter not to swing, in the hope that the opposing pitcher would throw a fourth ball and give the batter a walk to first base.

To her ear, the words sounded very like the “g'dye” that was Tim's standard greeting. Australian for “good day.” It was funny, she thought, how little things, like the ballplayers' cries, could bring him to mind. She often found herself thinking of him at incongruous times. His image had a habit of popping up like an unexpected scene in a Bergman movie. Totally unexpected, yet always welcome.

“Good eye. Good eye.”

“G'dye.” That's what Tim would say when he picked her up tonight to go to Bridges—which was where he'd taken her on the January day they'd first met. She let herself savour thoughts of seeing him tonight and of how they had met.

The weather then, she thought, looking at dust motes shimmering in a visiting sunbeam, hadn't been as pleasant as today's, and the last thing she had been expecting was to meet a new man, especially one like Tim Andersen.

She rose, walked to the window, and watched as a little lad took an almighty swing at the ball—and missed, lost his balance, and sat down heavily right in the middle of home plate.

“Go on,” she said, knowing that he couldn't hear her, “pick yourself up and have another go.”

It was advice she could have used herself not so very long ago.

She'd started seeing a writer last July. He was younger than she was, a bit bohemian with his beard and ponytail and complete disregard for the establishment. God, but he'd made her laugh. Some of his friends were weird by her standards, yet there was always an excitement in their company. He'd made her feel ten years younger, until, quite by chance, she had discovered that he was married. That had come to light in November. She'd told him to go to hell, never seen him again, decided to give men a rest for a while and to be satisfied with her own company and that of her immediate circle of friends.

Three months later, her anger and disappointment, her sense of betrayal, had faded sufficiently, and she could smile at herself for being so easily taken in.

One Saturday, feeling housebound, she'd decided to go to the Art Gallery. She'd walked from Kits to Granville Island, intending to take the water-bus across False Creek and walk down Burrard Street to West Georgia.

It had been a day when the January clouds had seemed to be welded to the tops of the North Shore Mountains. The sky had opened.

Despite the warmth of the morning sun today, just thinking of how suddenly soaked she had become made her shiver.

The nearest shelter had been Granville Market, and she was turning to scurry over there when, from nowhere, a voice said, “Excuse me. Excuse me, miss.”

She'd turned and seen a tall man in foul-weather gear standing in the cockpit of a small moored yacht.

“Me?”

“Yes. Come aboard out of the rain.” His Australian accent was noticeable.

She hesitated.

“I don't bite, and you're getting soaked.”

She stepped to the side of the dock.

“Take my hand.”

He helped her aboard.

“Down there.” He guided her to a hatch.

She found herself in a small cabin. She sniffed. There was a faint smell of diesel fuel. The thrumming of rain on fibreglass drowned his next words.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, ‘Park yourself on one of the seats. By the table.'”

“Thank you, Mr.?”

“Andersen. Tim Andersen.” He threw back the hood of his oilskin jacket.

She saw the beginnings of pouches beneath grey eyes. Sandy eyebrows with uncut longer hairs. Wide forehead under a receding hairline. Bent nose—a result, she would later learn, of the Aussie-rules football he used to play in Melbourne. He wasn't going to beat Sean Connery for the title of World's Sexiest Looking, but looks weren't everything.

“Fiona Kavanagh.”

“Welcome aboard. You from Ireland?”

“Years ago. I live here now.” She knew her accent had given him the clue.

“I'm from Oz. Canada's a country of immigrants. Do you like it here?”

“I love it on the west coast.”

“Me, too. Except when it rains like this. West coast? More like the bleeding
wet
coast.”

She'd heard that one before but still laughed, and, as her head shook, she felt her hair wet against her face. She must look a sight. “You wouldn't have a towel on board, Mr. Andersen?”

“'Course. I'll get you one.” He moved to a small doorway, entered, and returned carrying a towel. “And it's Tim to my friends.”

She accepted the towel and dried her hair. “God,” she said, “I must look like a drowned rat.”

“You look pretty good to me,” he said, taking back the damp towel.

She noticed his look of appraisal, and found that she didn't mind. Not one bit.

“Thank you … Tim.”

“Aw, no need for thanks when a bloke tells the truth.”

That made her smile.

She heard the rain hammering on the deck above her head.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I was going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

Why not? She nodded. “Great.”

“Listen,” he said, turning from where he was filling a kettle, “it's stopped raining.”

All she could hear was the soft creaking of the boat tugging against her mooring lines. “I really should be running along. Thanks for rescuing me.”

His face fell. “No tea?”

“Well…”

He glanced at his watch. “I've a better idea, Fiona.” He hesitated. “It's all right if I call you Fiona, Miss Kavanagh?”

That was Old World courtesy, and she appreciated it. “Of course.”

“Why don't you let me buy you lunch at Bridges? Unless you've something better to do?”

She hesitated. “You're not a writer, by any chance?”

“Me? Nah? You should see my scrawl. Anyway, I didn't ask you to a reading. I invited you to lunch.” He smiled, and the look on his face was that of a small boy who had brought a stray puppy home and was asking his mother, “Can I keep him, Mum? Can I?” That look tipped the scales.

“No,” she said.

His face fell.

“No. I mean I don't have anything better to do.”

“Good on you, mate. Let's go.”

Something better? She knew, now, that meeting Tim had been the best thing that had happened to her in years. She blessed the downpour that had brought them together. There'd be no rain today. Outside the window, there was not as much as a wisp of cloud to be seen in the sky.

She closed the pane, muffling the cries of the Little Leaguers.

Someone knocked on her door. Fiona went and opened it, expecting to greet the Greek family.

Becky Johnston, fiftyish, bespectacled, tall, her grey hair pulled back in a bun, stood in the hall. She carried herself with the formal rigidity of a sergeant major.

“Morning, Becky.”

“Toiling in your vineyard, I see.” Becky's parents came from the south of England and had brought their seventeen-year-old daughter with them when they'd immigrated to Vancouver. She'd never lost her plummy Oxbridge accent.

“Parent-teacher in a few minutes. The Papodopolouses.”

“Dimitris been acting the maggot again?”

Fiona nodded. “The in-house counselor thinks he's hyperactive.”

Becky snorted. “Rubbish. Psychological mumbo jumbo. He's just a busy little ten-year-old, that's all.”

“Busy? If we could harness his energy, we could use him to power half the streetlights in Kits.”

“You have my deep abiding sympathy.” Becky had a grin on her face. “I'll leave you to it. I came in to work on next week's teaching plan.” Becky looked out through the window. “It really is a lovely day, and I'll be finished soon. Would you care to go for coffee when you've finished?”