Free Bishop's Man by Linden Macintyre Page A

belonged to someone twice his age.

    “You’ve got a nice spot here,” he said.

    “It’s all right. A bit too much space for one. It was built at a time when you’d have housekeepers and a lot more visitors than now.”

    “I like old houses. This is like what I want for myself someday.” He was looking around, studying detail. “The old fella. Dad. He was saying you seemed interested in the old boat … and since I was in the area …”

    “Ah, well,” I said, feeling a sudden panic. “I think it would be a bit of a stretch. What do you think?”

    “Whatever you think yourself. But if you decided … we could work something out.” He was already moving away, his nervousness palpable.

    “I wouldn’t know the first thing about a boat,” I said.

    “Piece of cake. I could show you.”

    “I’ll let you know,” I said, and promptly shoved the notion from my mind.

     
    Driving by Little Harbour one chill October evening, I noted that the Lady Hawthorne was still sitting there in the grim light that lingers after the sun has gone. There were already boats on the land, propped upright on empty oil barrels and blocks of timber, blind-eyed, broad-shouldered, hibernating creatures.

    There was something irresistible about those silent boats on that evening in October. I still don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the memory of that Sunday afternoon in August, the quality of life I saw unfolding on a boat.

    That night I telephoned.

    I tell myself it was a whim. A few thousand dollars for a hobby. Danny told me that the engine alone was worth about ten thousand. He just wanted to get it off his hands and, at the same time, he was happy that somebody would get some pleasure from it. It would be fun, he said, for himself and the young fellow to help an amateur learn to drive a boat.

    “You said it wasn’t difficult,” I said.

    “Nah, it’s just a matter of getting used to a couple of things.”

    “Like what?”

    “Nothing complicated. There’s no brakes and you’re steering from behind. It’s like a wheelbarrow.”

    I told myself it would be like rediscovering the place. The bay was a new world, a potential sanctuary.

    “It might be good for the young fellow to get to know you,” Danny said.

    Don’t be so sure, I thought.

    I said I’d be happy to pay whatever he asked for. A boat is worth whatever you think you need, he said. Four thousand was plenty. The business took ten minutes.

    The next day was sunny and warm. I stood on the wharf studying my acquisition, fondling the ignition key in my jacket pocket. I’ve been around boats all my life, but now I noticed details I’d never seen before. Ropes tied specifically, the relationship to other boats around her. The sheer bulk. How does it start? How do you get it out of there? More important, how do you get it back inside so limited a space? How do you make the damn thing stop if there are no brakes?

    Young Danny was beside me. “Would you like to take her out?”

    “Not today,” I said quickly. “I have to get back to the house. I have somebody coming.”

    It wasn’t a lie. The young woman on the phone had said she’d like an appointment and I asked if she could come that night. I recognized the name but couldn’t put a face to it.

    “Any time you feel up to it,” Danny said. “But it’ll have to be soon. We’re getting into another storm season.”

    “I can hardly wait,” I said. And suddenly I believed it.

     
    At home, I made a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Opened a can of spaghetti. The supper-hour news was on TV. The world had moved on to new horrors. Bosnia. Rwanda. Palestine, always Palestine. Never anything about the South these days. No more Nicaragua, Guatemala or El Salvador. Never anything about Honduras anymore. The Yanks lost interest, it seems, when the Cold War thawed. All the ugly little proxy wars down there no longer mattered and mysteriously ended. It was just as well. Too many painful