Free The Equations of Love by Ethel Wilson Page A

down by the cpr dock and watch the seagulls wheeling, alighting, taking off again, and filling the air with their cries. And as if that were not enough, behold the waters of Burrard Inlet, different in colour tonight, and the ships – little and big – coming and going, and across the water the houses and buildings near the water line of the North Shore, all lit up by the evening sun, and the twin spires of the old Indian church by the water, and behind all this the mountains; and behold the sky! Against the peaceful backdrop of mountain, sea, and blue clouded or gloomy sky, there is something moving, always moving. The eye follows the seagull, the floating log, oil on the water, the busy launch,the two squat ferries that ply between the two shores of Burrard Inlet, the big docking ship. One is entertained as in a dream.
    Vicky is never alone, leaning on the rail above the water. There is a drifting population that leans against the rail, mostly men, but she does not observe them and they do not observe her. Some are people from the prairie who are actively interested in this scene that lies before them. They comment upon the smell of the salt and the diurnal miracle of the tides which never fails to surprise them. But most of the people come down here because, vaguely, they like it; or because they have nothing whatever to do; or because they are on their way to somewhere else and it won’t hurt to stop for a minute.
    One man comes fairly regularly. He is not vague. He comes because he has an affinity with the scene, and particularly with the seagulls. He thinks he knows and recognizes some of these calculating active birds which have little to recommend them except their strength, their fine coarse beauty, and their wheeling flight, and that is enough. It is improbable that he knows and recognizes them. He has enormous curiosity about the seagulls. He would like to be one, he would indeed. He checks by the Post Office clock – because he has no watch – the time of the first flight westwards in the evening. Then he watches the regular evening flight westwards of the seagulls. How they pour forth from all the waterfront through the draw of air above Stanley Park. The seagulls cease their wheeling and crying; their behaviour has changed; and now in their evening flight they go, steady, purposeful, silent, flying in ones, twos, threes, and companies, to where they will spend the night. And where is that? Is it at the mouth of the Fraser River? Is it on the western rim of Sea Island? Or AnvilIsland? And why do they go, nightly, and return at daybreak? Could they not spend the night here? No, they leave together and fly steadily westwards together, not one turning back.
    The man who watches the seagulls with perception is called old Wolfenden, but that is not his name and it never was. He is old and he is obviously poor. He has a scrubby beard. In the summer time he lives in a hollow tree in Stanley Park and will continue to do so until the police discover that he is doing this. Then they will turn him out, but not unkindly. He expects that day.
    In the meantime he enjoys outwitting the police because they are young and handsome in their leggings, because they have elegant horses, and motorcycles, and fine prowler cars equipped with devices for finding out law-breakers (he approves of all this, the law should be kept), and he is only an old man with a false name and a dirty copy of
King Lear
in his pocket, and for half the year he outwits these handsome men. The rest of the year, or at least when the weather turns bad, old Wolfenden has a bed in a rooming house in the East End that used to be kept by a Japanese, but is now kept by a Swede; he gets bronchitis and is sent into the hospital. Although old Wolfenden is as alone as Vicky Tritt who often leans on the rail beside him without observing him, he is not lonely. He can, and does, look back along a sorry procession of years which he does not regret. If he regards these