Free Footprints by Robert Rayner Page A

BARF in front of the post office, from where they will parade down Main Street, along the highway, and on to the Old Beach Road. When they reach the Anderson cottage, BARF and the marchers will block the entrance by sitting in front of the gates for the rest of the afternoon.
    â€œOr until we get arrested,” says Drumgold.
    â€œArrested?” says Harper.
    â€œThat’s the whole point,” says Drumgold. “It draws attention to your cause.”
    â€œYes, but...
arrested
?” says Harper.

11
    Early on Saturday morning Drumgold is making his placard for the demonstration. He finishes his message –
Free the Beach!
– and staples it to one of the frames he’d made the night before, with Isora and Harper, in Mr. Meating’s new workshop, while Mr. Meating was out.
    He couldn’t believe the workshop. It was bigger than the whole of his mother’s house, which had been a cabin on the Back River until the building of a dam upstream left several hundred metres of swamp and alders between it and the water. His ownroom, where he’s working now, is like a cell, with space for only a bed and a chair. His clothes lie in a heap on the floor in a corner. The walls are bare, except for two photographs taped beside his bed. One is of his mother, Marigold, taken when she was a teenager, just married, and – she’d once confided – pregnant with him. She’s looking over her shoulder, smiling brilliantly. Drumgold thinks she looks like a movie star. The other is of Dave, who’d lived with Marigold until a year ago, when he left for Alberta to work in the oil fields, leaving a note saying he’d send for her and Drumgold when he was settled, and he hoped Marigold’s nerves got better, because he didn’t know what she wanted from him when she was low.
    It was Dave who’d taught Drumgold what he, Dave, described as self-sufficiency. The first few times he’d visited Marigold, Drumgold, who was just a kid then, had cowered from him. When Marigold explained that her husband’s occasional, violent visits had made Drumgold wary of any man who entered the house, Dave waited patiently until Drumgold’s fear had diminished enough for him to listen to him, and then had told him he needed to remember only two rules in order to be self-sufficient and to take care of himself: one – that it didn’t matter what he did or what he used to defend himself and anyone he cared about; and two – that this was how to hurt someone, if you really had to, and he pointed to various parts of his body, saying, grab and squeeze here, poke your finger there, punch here, kick there. Then he let Drumgold practice on him. After that, Drumgold kept an old kitchen knife and a can of WD40 in his room, and the next time his father visited – Mrs. Drumgold was home, but not Dave – he met him at the door and sprayed oil in his face. As his father’s hands flew to his eyes, Drumgold slashed at him with the knife. He lunged at Drumgold, threatening, “You little bastard. I’ll–” Drumgoldthrust the knife at him again, slicing through his sleeve and into his arm, and stepped back. His father started towards him, blood seeping through his shirt and oil dripping from his face. His mother stood behind Drumgold, crying and begging, “Just let him come in.” Drumgold held his ground and glowered. His father said, “You’ll get it when I come back.”
    He never had returned, although Drumgold still kept the knife and the WD40 under his bed.
    He stands, testing how best to hold the placard. It occurs to him that it would be a useful weapon. He wonders whether he should resist arrest if the police move in when the marchers block the entrance to the cottage or if it would be better to go limp. He’s been reading about passive resistance and decides that going limp will be best. He knows if he resists, Harper will follow his example. He