It was a zoo. Harold could hear the activity before he went in and he paused to consider how Josephine meant it. He wondered if she had found it rather intolerable over the years, living in the midst of so many people, so much going on, if perhaps her temperament would have been better served by a quiet one-child family. Maybe that was why she wanted to be a clown, an acceptable retreat, an observation point.
The screened side porch became the wide veranda across the front of the house and Harold had gone along the house to this because he loved the fragrance of honeysuckle in the afternoon sun. Sun and bloom massed the out’oor room. And, as he turned the corner, conversation came to him, “ ‘… didn’t wipe between my toes or in my armpits or any other bodily area that could be seen as offensive so I don’t really see – ‘ “
The speaker broke off as she caught sight of Harold, put her hand across her mouth. It was Penny, daughter of Walter, who had not so long ago married his youngest daughter, also named Penny.
“Oh, this is totally embarrassing,” Penny said behind her hand, her early adolescence giving her endearment but not yet charm. Her friend, a freckled redhead, was sprawled on one of the chairs and more concerned with regaining a less tangled posture.
“Not to me,” Harold told her. “With five daughters I think I am now immune to embarrassment. But I’m always hopeful.” He smiled at them and they both grinned back.
At the doorway he stopped. “However, now my curiosity has been caught. You can spare me waking up at 3 a.m. and trying to fit suitable scenarios to what I overheard and then wondering if I came anywhere close to the real thing by telling me your ‘I was there’ account.”
They both stared at him for a moment and the redhead continued to look puzzled but Penny said, “Oh, I was just telling Alex what I said to this woman who freaked out at the Crystal Pool because I accidentally took her towel and used it after I had a shower.”
Harold looked at her in respectful silence: he wished he had been able to articulate to an adult so well and with such controlled sarcasm when he was that age. Penny must have taken his gaze for censure because she hastily added, “Of course I didn’t really say that to her – but I wanted to!”
“Good thought form,” Harold agreed as he went indoors.
He paused to peer into the living room but only a cat was there and he heard Alex say, “He’s totally different from your real grandfather.” And Penny replied, “My real grandfather doesn’t like him, he only met him once at the wedding, and he thinks he, my, stepgranddad or whatever, knows it all but Penny says if you spent as much time thinking about things as he does you’d have come up with all the answers as well.”
As Harold went along to the kitchen, sorting out pronouns, he wondered if these overheard remarks proved or refuted the idea that an eavesdropper never heard good about himself. He felt rather flattered and wondered how he would feel when he next came upon Walter’s dad.
Across the common chaos of the kitchen he first shared a look with Polly, checking in, touching base. There was nothing urgent to convey in either’s eyes so life could proceed. Sera was still there, now cutting out black paper at the kitchen table and when she saw him she jumped up and said, “I want to cut you now, Gramps, you got a most in-ter-est-ing profile, “ so he let her lead him to a chair and arrange him so she could cut his silhouette. He greeted people as he went. Cass, Sera’s mom was now there with Benita, finally-named baby, seated on the day couch, her little finger stuck in the kid’s mouth like a soother. She didn’t believe in pacifiers. Harold wondered if she had a persistently wrinkled finger. He and Polly had changed their views on soothing aids the hour they brought second daughter home and first daughter set up a howl. First daughter got the pacifier.
Penny was there too, stirring something at the stove. It smelled like applesauce and from the strong fragrance Harold thought someone had likely sprinkled cinnamon on a stove burner in an old family tradition. “Is Penny still out front?” she asked and he turned to say yes causing Sera, who was posing him, to tell him to please sit still or she could get his nose wrong if he moved.
Over in the corner by the stove that added to the ambiance and warmth of this vast room on cold days sat a man Harold didn’t recognize, having a cup of tea. The man started to get up but Polly stopped him, “Don’t rush, Mr. Armitage. Finish your tea. Looks like Harold will be forced to sit still for a few moments. Harold, Mr. Armitage.” Harold waggled a finger, not daring to turn his head. A cat jumped into his lap, one of the strays and Cass shoo’ed him away before she set Benita in Harold’s arms. “Mind her while I spend a penny, please.”
“She means she’s going to the bathroom,” Sera explained since there was a stranger present who might not know, through lips pursed in concentration.
“Better take your Visa card with you,” Harold called after Benita’s mom and delighted in the weight of a tiny human being. By slanting his eyes down without moving his head he could just see the small face with its thoughtful look.
“Mr. Armitage has kindly dropped by and taken a look at the garage doors and will give us an estimate on installing automatic ones.” Polly was saying to him.
“I thought you were too busy to look into that.”
“I fit it in.”
“I’ll leave you our brochure,” the man said, settling back into what Harold knew was a very comfortable chair. Polly had taken an upholstery course once at Camosun and revamped an old chair frame her grandparents had owned. She claimed her mistakes in stuffing evenly seemed to shape nicely to a human frame.
General conversation followed. Sera showed him his silhouette and he was intrigued and impressed. “This is wonderful, “ he told her. “What made you think to do it? It’s an old art form.”
“A man down at the boats was doing it.” Sera said.
“She means the Inner Harbour,” New Penny explained. (They were still trying to overcome the confusions that arose from the two same names; Big and Little Penny was not appreciated by either, especially since the girl was already taller than the woman, and New Penny was tolerated for the moment because a neighbour had said she was “bright as a new penny” which was pleasing.) She and Alex were now part of the crowd in the kitchen snacking on gingerbread and applesauce.
“I know that,” Sera said with another Gallic shrug. She was unsure of New Penny who seemed to either ignore her or make her feel wrong.
“Let me try to cut your portrait.” Harold said to Sera. New Penny reached eagerly for the baby and she and Alex took Benita to the day bed where they began to teach her to sit up against the pillows. Sera obediently turned sideways to him. He was in a left-handed month but the scissors wouldn’t cut left-handed so he switched to the right. It wasn’t easy. His hands seemed too big.
The first was awful, hardly detailed. He tried again with not much more success. A third effort was also less than satisfying. Sera, instead of being disappointed, seemed pleased that she could do something better than an adult.
“Maybe I would be better if I could cut life size and not so small, “ he voiced.
Cass rescued Benita who was becoming increasingly annoyed at being propped and then subsiding into a slouch and said they had to leave but Sera asked if she could stay for supper and was told yes. “I think you’re cutting caricatures, Dad,” Cass said as she left, looking at his efforts.
“A carrot –ture?” inquired Sera and Polly quickly started to explain before the rolled-eyes expression on New Penny’s face turned into a patronizing speech.
Mr. Armitage took his leave, a bit regretfully it seemed. The setting was attractive and welcoming.
Harold had moved into the chair vacated by Mr. Armitage and was glancing over the brochure. “He came on short notice,” Harold commented. “Must be a slow time.”
“Mention that there were two garages possible, one with double doors was an incentive,” Polly replied. “He says we’ll wonder how we ever did without them.”
“Likely right. Is my next appointment at six or seven?”
“Seven,” Polly said. She was seated in the rocker, feet up, Sera curled in her lap. The two Pennys and Alex were on the day couch looking at a photo album of a long ago trip to Vermont; they were planning to go in the autumn and see some fall colour. Daughter Penny looked up, first at one parent and then the other, a long look but she didn’t actually say anything.
New Penny explained the interruption, without thinking, to Alex, “My stepmom thinks it’s terrible that her mother takes care of her father like that.” Then she blushed horribly and there was an awkward silence.
Nobody said anything because there didn’t seem to be anything to say. It wasn’t a new issue but an unresolved one, at least in the eyes of the onlookers. Harold glanced briefly at Polly but she gave him a quick look back and he was reassured.
He leaned back in his chair and thought about the seven o’clock appointment, someone he hadn’t seen before, and wished he could know the sequence of events that led from the beginning of her having heard about him. He could afford to get involved deeply with his clients: Polly’s money had been a blessed gift. He felt he would have been quite different if he had to earn a living in the conventional manner. As it was he earned a decent income but the fact that he did not have to do so was extremely liberating. Some people worked to get money. He had enough money to let him do his work leisurely and effectively.
He wished for ‘fly on the wall’ status. Or, in this case, it would have been a fly in the shrubbery.
* * * * * * *
Agnes was very definite. “HE will be able to help you. HE has helped many people.
Susan was doubtful. She could hear the capitals before she realized they actually existed and at the time she thought they spoke of religious fervour. Agnes, she knew, did tend to believe in New Age things. Susan did not. So she was suspicious. She was also desperate.
“Alright, then give me his phone number. Is his office downtown?” She hoped it wasn’t in Sooke or Sidney: she didn’t like driving all that much. Her tears she wiped on the cuff of her gardening glove.
“Well, no, it’s at his home.” Agnes was juggling the probability that someone working at home could be as effective or professional as someone with a real office in the core of the city with the knowledge that he was, oh, he was, so she tried to give confidence to the doubt. “But it’s a marvelous place, so I’ve heard. I – well, I met him at a book signing – no, not his, he doesn’t write as far as I know – and we got talking while standing in line and he was so easy to talk to and he told me what he did, that he was a counselor of sorts and I happened to mention a little problem I was having and, well, he came up with the most ingenious solution. I phoned up later to see what his consultation fee was – talked to his wife, I guess, pretended I was just inquiring and hadn’t already spoken to him. She told me and I sent a cheque with an explanation but, you know, he sent it back with the most charming note. Said it had been his pleasure to speak with me and help me out.”
Susan stared at her but Agnes was not about to divulge what her “little problem” had been. She hastily went on, “And since then, would you believe, I’ve actually come across two other people who have used his services, in the normal way, I mean, at his office. So I know he is good and not just on my behalf. HE will be helpful.”
Susan’s wonderfully-shaped eyebrows rose but that was all. She’d make short work of a kook, if need be, but somehow she trusted Agnes, although theirs was a longterm acquaintanceship rather than friendship. Susan’s distress had come pouring out during their day of volunteering in the Government House garden. Pulling up weeds seemed to free the mind and open the heart; the ugly blackness that had been loitering in her for a month or so rushed out and had been discussed. Even acquaintances wanted to know why you were crying into the greenery.
* * * * * *
The house was on the outskirts of one of the villages of Victoria, tucked behind trees and an up-and-down hedge of laurels, cedars, and box.
Susan had been instructed to follow the brick path around to the back of the house, and proceed to the cottage in the garden.
She had been able to get an appointment the next evening and wondered if this meant he had very little business or if he was overbooked and she would be charged extra for this after-hours time.
The brick path with occasional areas of cobbles meandered through a lilac grove beside the house, went past many windows that must give on to a kitchen but she was too polite to even glance inside, and then she passed an herb garden that could have used some attention. A child’s face peered down at her from a second story window and she only thought to look up because she had the sensation of being stared at. The child waved at her and then disappeared before she could raise her hand in response. Susan raised those marvelous eyebrows (only her husband realized they really were naturally defined; none of her friends would believe that man’s artifice was not necessary) and walked on.
There was more garden, lots of it, but she scarcely noticed because she had spotted the cottage and before she had any real chance to look at it because she noticed the man at the bottom of the garden she thought, well, business must be very, very good. The man at the back of the garden was leaning casually out the circle of what looked like a gate made of twigs. It must be: the entire back fence seemed to be made of twigs as well.
She paused, not knowing if she should go up to the door of the small house and knock or call out to the man. He could be the gardener and that would be awkward. There was a dutch door on the house, the top half open, but no one was visible and her presence certainly was to anyone in the house with its long wide windows. Well, really, this was most annoying.
Suddenly the man turned around and gave her a long calm look. “I thought you were coming by the lane,” he called out, starting toward her. “But I realize now Polly gave you directions from the street. It isn’t all that obvious which is our gate so I was watching for you. I must get a sign up.”
There hadn’t been a sign in all the years and he would have had great trouble deciding what to put on one but these facts did not stop him from entertaining the idea of some sort of marker.
He was tall but he had a bit of a stoop, more an incline of posture than hunch, which was oddly protective. From a distance he had looked rumpled but near by it was because he had no hard edges, the skin and the clothes all adjusted to the frame.
Susan was trying to guess his age as he walked up, extended his hand, and said, “Lady Trewally? I’m Harold Edison.”
She flushed red and hot, an effect she could summon at will but this was not one of them. No one had referred to the title for years and years. “Please, I’m Mrs. Edward Trewally – Susan” (even in the midst of her distress he caught the tone of condescension at being offered her first name) “ the title is old family and – not, applicable.” She wondered where on earth he had heard of it, and from whom.
Perhaps he guessed at what she had had to cope with in the past because of it. His smile became even broader and he said, “Forgive me, I am as impressed as any Canadian by a title but I can easily wave away my awe.” He made a small bow and then moved his hand in a sweeping motion. He was wishing Polly had not mentioned this fact, out of her vast repertoire of knowledge; it had not made for a good start; he hoped he had redeemed the situation.
She gave a small laugh and a nod of condonation. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edison,” she said, offering her hand in a shake. Harold noted that it was slightly turned as if expecting lip service. His clients were seldom dull!
“Harold,” he answered her as they turned toward the cottage.
There was a hand-painted sign on a post with a colorful HE on it.
Susan paused and looked at it. She could hear Agnes’ voice, “HE will be able to help you.” Maybe it was the name of his business.
Harold answered her eye query. “My initials. My wife, over the years, has jokingly referred to me, at times, as HE, mimicking and, I’m afraid, mocking an aunt of hers who used to call her husband “Himself” and never anything else. So I’m sometimes called HE with unusual, and undeserved, I feel, emphasis. My kids have enjoyed this and one of my daughters made me that sign for a birthday awhile back. She insisted I hung it up.” He paused for a moment and then said, “Hang. She insisted I hang it up. Have you ever noticed how some British writers use what I assume is the literarily correct form of the second verb. Sounds awkward to me.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps this had all been a terrible mistake!
.
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