“Donald!”
Father Peasgood stopped in mid-spate as if someone had pulled the switch. Dorothy Peasgood took my hand in a firm grip. I found myself looking up at her. In fact, since I had stopped wearing the two-inch lifts in my shoes, another suggestion I had been loathe to take, I found myself looking up at most people.
Her massive frame stood almost six feet tall. She had abundant grey hair pulled back into a messy chignon and wore a smear of lipstick as her sole cosmetic. Her brightly patterned summer dress had the unfortunate effect of making her look like an overstuffed upholstered chair. At odds with her matronly ensemble, she sported a large, garish, guitar-shaped brooch pinned on her left shoulder.
I felt her gimlet eyes appraise me in a glance, much as she might look over a particularly choice cut of beef at the butcher shop. This look I had seen before in the eyes of other ladies of a certain age who hoped that Prince Charming lurked just the around the next corner. “Call me Dorothy,” she urged, “Mr. . . . ?”
“Trenchant. Charles Trenchant.” I let my tongue roll a little on the ‘r’s. Every time I said it, the name felt more comfortable, more me.
“And Mrs. Trenchant? Is she home today?” Her voice rose on a hopeful note.
I had a bad moment in which I couldn’t remember whether I was married or not.
“N . . n . . not married,” I stammered.
“Ohhh.” She smiled archly. “And are you just visiting, or are you planning to make your home here at Cormorant Harbour with us?”
“I’ve retired here.” I raised a hand to push up my glasses, then again realized I no longer wore them. I converted the gesture into a sweep through my hair, now much longer than it had ever been. At least I hadn’t had to shave it off or dye it some strange colour. The longer length suited me, I thought, and reinforced my new artistic image.
“Ex-civil servant, and I was fortunate enough to be one of the few who got a ‘golden handshake’ in the last round of cutbacks. This has enabled me to fulfill a life-long ambition to devote my time to my writing.” The words tumbled out, sounding as if I’d learned them by rote, which of course, I had. However, neither Peasgood seemed to notice.
“Oh, how exciting! An author in our midst.” Dorothy’s girlish enthusiasm clashed with the predatory gleam in her small blue eyes. “You must give a little talk to the A.C.W.—that’s our church ladies’ group. They’ll be so interested. And perhaps, you might consider leading a writers’ group, and we’re always looking for someone knowledgeable to serve on the Library Board, and a qualified person to judge the high school poetry competitions. Oh, I just know you’re going to love it here.”
All through this exchange, Father Donald reminded me of a restless racehorse at the gate, waiting for his chance to plunge back into the conversation.
“Oh my stars, yes, we’re quite a happy little family here, well, not all family, of course, although most of the people are related to one another in some way, although not to Dottie and me, of course, our being ‘come-from-aways’ like yourself, though not so far away, having just come from the North Shore, although some here think that’s another world, and much to our surprise, we discovered that many have not ventured off this shore in their lifetimes.” He paused and drew breath.
Dorothy took back the conversational ball. “And you’re from?” She probed, making little effort to hide her curiosity.
I decided she was wasted here in this hinterland. She belonged in the Crown Prosecutor’s office in some large Canadian city. “Tor . . . er . . . Ottawa,” I said, almost forgetting my lines. “Yes, Ottawa.”
Ottawa, I reminded myself. Yes. That was the story. Not Toronto, where I had lived. It was Ottawa, and now here, Cormorant Head, a remote community on Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore.
“Ottawa! Our Nation’s Capital!” Father Donald announced. My slip went unnoticed.
“And your church affiliation is. . . . ?” Dorothy overrode him, continuing in her quest for information.
“I’m Anglican,” I told her. This much they had left me of my former self. “In fact,” I said, fingering my new beard, “I was a lay reader in my old parish.” Too late! The words had slipped out on their own volition. I regretted little about leaving my old life except that I would no longer be part of the mystical ritual and spiritual pageantry of St. Thomas’s. Standing at the lectern reading Morning Prayer, or processing down the aisle in full panoply, I had deemed my small role almost as important as that of the priest.
I could have bitten my tongue off. How could I have let such a thing slip? In a moment of despair, I realized that I had no stomach for this cloak-and-dagger existence. Slips like this would lead to my ultimate downfall, if not demise, should I make them in front of the wrong people. Certainly, the Peasgoods looked innocent enough, but I’d been warned not to trust anyone. I needed to remember that my enemies would never rest until they found me.
Father Donald beamed, almost apoplectic with enthusiasm. My heart sank as he bounced up and down. I realized that I couldn’t retract my statement now. “How wonderful! An answer to prayer! Our lay reader passed away just six months ago, so sad, poor fellow, although a blessing in some ways, not that his dying was a blessing, especially not to me, but with his difficulties, you know, his failing health, and always, so determined to keep up his duties at St. Grimbald’s, despite his increasing deafness, although at eighty-seven years, one must expect this, although I’ve know some people who’ve retained remarkable use of their faculties well into their nineties . . .” At this point, he stopped and looked bewildered. “Well! It’s good to have you. We must get together for a long chat,” he finished.
“Perhaps you will join us for lunch at the rectory after church on Sunday?” suggested Dorothy, seizing the opportunity to consolidate our acquaintance.
“Oh, yes!” said Father Donald, picking up on the need to strike while the iron was hot. “That would be wonderful. It would give you a chance to see how our little church functions, and then, we could prepare a letter for the Bishop, not that the Bishop minds, he’s glad to have anyone on board, well not anyone, he wouldn’t want murderers or criminals or atheists, although I doubt an atheist . . .”
“Donald!”
Father Donald’s musings on the suitability of atheists as lay readers in the Anglican Church ceased. Dorothy turned to me with a smile. “The service times are in our newsletter. We will see you on Sunday.”
Any thoughts I had of excusing myself faded before Dorothy’s implacable tone. I would be more likely to refuse a royal summons from the Queen of England than say “no” to Dorothy Peasgood.
I realized I had trapped myself by my own carelessness—the same kind of carelessness that had propelled me into this place and this situation. I still found it hard to believe that I, an honest, law-abiding citizen, a man of modest means, a simple accountant, had held the key to the biggest drug bust in Canadian history. Little