This day, I could feel the excitement coming off him in waves as he pushed through the front door and preceded me into my small living room. This room, like all the other living rooms in the community, eschewed the view of the ocean in favour of a picture-window panorama of the road. Father Donald settled himself in his favourite chair, an overstuffed monstrosity, part of the suite ordered by the same nameless bureaucrat who had purchased the house. The entire house had been furnished in government beige, no doubt most of it coming from the pages of the Sears catalogue. As well, I doubted that the purchaser had ever seen the house. Since every item was overstuffed, oversized and overdecorated, I suspected that the buyer’s selection reflected his own large size.
Twinkles leapt up and settled herself into Father Donald’s capacious lap. Although shy with most strangers, she had formed an affinity with Father Donald which he reciprocated. I felt a pang when it occurred to me that she looked more at home on his lap than on mine.
“It’s come!” he announced. “Not that I didn’t think it would, but with the Bishop, I can never be too sure, although your credentials were impeccable, absolutely wonderful, in fact, even the Bishop said so, not that I think he actually checked them, that would seem as if he didn’t believe you, well, not that anyone ever lies on their application, or not that I know of, after all, there’s no reason to lie . . .” He rummaged through his battered brief case. “Here it is! Your certificate of lay readership in the Parish of Cormorant Harbour. You can start right away, well, not right away, you’ll have to wait until Sunday, that is, if Sunday’s all right for you, you won’t need any training of course, although many do, in fact poor old Tom, our previous lay reader, had to take the course twice, most unfortunate, couldn’t get the hang of the thing, probably his deafness had something to do with it, not that there’s that much to learn, well, you know all about that, well, not all of it perhaps . . .”
“Cookie?” I said, a word that proved to be as effective as Dorothy’s “Donald!”. I had found the secret to turning off the flow.
“Oh! My! Chocolate mallows! My favourite!” I watched in fascination as he licked the chocolate off the top of the cookie, ate the marshmallow filling, and then popped the jam-covered biscuit bottom into his mouth whole. The ritual never ceased to amuse me. I handed him a steaming cup of my special blend of coffee, wincing as he stirred in several large spoonfuls of sugar and laced it with plenty of cream. He blew across the top surface, closed his eyes and sipped. “Oh my stars! Oh my soul! This is wonderful coffee. Not at all like Dorothy makes, not that Dorothy’s coffee isn’t good, well, certainly not as good as this, although I wouldn’t want her to hear me say so, her being so touchy about the domestic side of things, and of course, I’d be the first to say that she’s a wonderful cook, although . . .”
“Another cookie?” It worked again. I watched as he ate his way through several more cookies. I smiled as I realized that Dorothy was not going to be pleased anyway, whether he told her about the coffee or not. The combination of chocolate and caffeine would have Father Donald wound up tighter than a mainspring for the rest of the day. I topped up his cup.
Taking advantage of his full mouth, I moved the conversation to a topic that had not yet left my mind since yesterday’s excursion to Sherri’s. “How are plans progressing for the Casino Night?” I asked him, by way of preamble.
Father Donald bounced up and down in his chair as he launched into an enthusiastic description of the plans. “It’s all coming into place. It’s in the Fire Hall and the A.C.W. is lined up to cater and the casino equipment has been ordered from the City and Boris’s friend Mattie is doing all the decorations and all of the firemen are going to dress up as Wild West gamblers with green eye shades and sleeve garters and fancy vests and I’ve already got mine and I was trying them on just this morning and I must say I do look so much the part and I’m sure that everyone is going to have a wonderful time and I know that it will raise a lot of money for our wonderful cause and I’m hoping . . .”
“Cookie?” I waited until Father Donald crammed the cookie into his mouth before I slipped in my next question. “Mrs. Barkhouse must be a great organizer,” I suggested.
“Oh my stars! Wonderful! We’re just chugging along in our little boat with Mildred’s hand firmly on the tiller. Amazing how that woman gets thing done! She’s a born leader, well, not that all leaders . . .”
I cut him off. He’d gone where I wanted him to be. “Mildred seems to be quite a powerhouse in the community,” I began. “She must be very popular . . . ?” I let the question hang.
“Oh, my soul! Popular? I suppose she is. Certainly she has no trouble getting everybody on board with her ideas. Well, not everybody, I suppose. I can think of one person who’s not enthusiastic, although she is enthusiastic about most things, well, almost all things, she didn’t care for the new choir gowns, not that we didn’t need them, but it was Mildred who chose the turquoise, not a good colour, well, nothing wrong with it as a colour, it’s certainly bright and cheerful, although Dorothy was quite right when she said that maroon wouldn’t show the dirt, not that they get dirty, well, not muddy, unless of course we have a church parade and it’s raining very hard, although I doubt we’d have a parade if it were raining . . .”
“Dorothy doesn’t care for Mildred?” I cut in.
“Oh my soul! I hate to say it, but I am most grieved by the bad feelings between them. It all goes back to when we first arrived. In our previous parishes, Dorothy had always taken on the role and duties of the rector’s wife, and I must say, executed them very well, despite the fact that she’s only my sister. However, when we arrived at St. Grimbald’s, Mildred was already firmly entrenched as the President of the A.C.W., a role usually reserved for the rector’s wife. The previous rector had no wife, poor man, although perhaps ‘poor’ is a misleading word, since we are quite well paid now, really, not at all the way it once was, and indeed, he did have fewer expenses without a wife, I’m sure, although on the other hand, he would suffer from the lack of support and companionship that are so vital to the success of ministry . . .”
“More coffee?” Father Donald stopped long enough to hand me his cup. I endeavoured to get him back on track. “So, Mildred was already the president of the A.C.W.?” I asked.
“Oh yes, and she wasn’t about to give it up. As she pointed out to Dorothy at their first meeting, Dorothy was in fact not the rector’s wife, but only his sister. I’m afraid their relationship went downhill from that point. In fact, I said to Dorothy just last week that it was her Christian duty to be more forgiving in her attitude towards Mildred . . .” He paused and licked his lips. “I’m afraid she didn’t take my little suggestion very well . . .” He took another large bite of a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. I felt it best not to ask for details.
“Your sister did seem a little upset about the Casino Night. . . .” I prompted.
“Oh my stars! Oh my soul! A little upset? Dear Charles, she was beside herself with anger at Mildred. I had to give her two of her nerve pills, not that she takes them very often, just when she’s feeling a little stressed, well, not a little stressed, she’s usually a little stressed, but when she’s extremely stressed, then she definitely needs them, I shouldn’t say ‘needs’, sounds likes she’s addicted or something, not that I know any real addicts, but I do think they are unable to do without their drugs, and I’m sure Dorothy could, that is, if she had to, although I wouldn’t want to be there if she needed one of her nerve pills and didn’t avail herself of them, having only experienced such a thing once in the past when her prescription ran out and indeed, it was not as dire as the police report made out . . .”
I let him ramble on as I digested the fact that my impression of Dorothy Peasgood as a rock of stability for Father Donald might be mistaken. Seeing that Father Donald had snagged the last cookie off the plate, I took it back to the kitchen for replenishment.
As I loaded half a dozen more of the chocolate cookies on the plate, I heard Father Donald shouting. “Oh my stars! A fire! A fire! Call 911!” Twinkles shot past me and disappeared into the bedroom.