Read Online The Last Woman by John Bemrose - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Bemrose
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wilderness any more, whole area’s changed. I’m not saying we don’t take people out, but hunters and fishermen are getting to be a rare species, around Lake Nigushi, anyway. All the changes – the clear-cuts – well, I’m sure you’re well aware. Now – we still keep a few guides on call. It’s not steady work, of course, but we’ll certainly keep you in mind.”
Murmuring a vague response, Billy stands, relieved to be finished. His face is hot, and as he heads for the door, hedoesn’t realize, at first, that Gerald is still speaking to him: “I’d really like to show you the place.” As they go down the stairs into the lobby, Gerald points out the teak front doors (“dropped five thousand bucks on them”). Outside, he insists Billy see the course. Boarding a golf cart, they hum down an asphalt path toward the green glow of the fairways. “This is a Phil Waits course,” Gerald tells him as they draw up on a knoll. Before them, as far as they can see, sprinklers fling long, shuddering plumes over the grass. Billy does not know who Phil Waits is, but he catches the pride in Gerald’s voice as he explains how he and Phil worked on the design together. He keeps glancing at Billy, eager for his approval, it seems, and though Billy responds with an occasional nod or grunt, there’s such an air of unreality about it all, such a feeling of bleakness, that he has trouble staying focused. And the sun beats down on the emerald fairways; and the sprinklers go on shushing and jiggering; and the sweat is prickling inside his shirt.
An hour later, arriving at the Harbour, he walks to Whitbread’s store. A new cement-block extension runs into a field, but the old country storefront persists, its tall show-windows plastered with the week’s specials. Taking a cart, he heads toward the produce section. When the trees are all gone, the people will be gone . For some time he stands without moving, as other shoppers push past: Fred Plante’s words opening a vast space, invisible to the eye, but felt – a chill fleeing over it like a breeze shivering the surface of a lake.
A minute later, he sees Ann Scott at the pharmacy counter. She is talking to a clerk and at first doesn’t notice him approach.
“Well!” she says, colouring.
“Thought you’d gone back to the Falls.”
“I’ve got a painting going – couldn’t leave it.” She goes on watching him, as if trying to make out exactly what or who he is; after her warmth at Inverness, he is taken aback.
He waits while she makes her purchase, then they go outside, into the sun, and walk to Lola’s restaurant, where they take a table on the empty deck. She has put on sunglasses with outsized frames, which give her the look of some exotic insect. He asks about her painting.
“Here’s Lola,” Ann says, and for a couple of minutes they deal with Lola.
“How’s your painting?” he persists, after the woman goes off.
“It’s so fragile at this point. I can’t really say much about it.” For a moment she is silent, then the huge dark eyes fix on him. “It was good to see you and Richard talking again.” She pauses, and when he doesn’t respond, she tries again: “I know things weren’t good between you when you left –” He shakes his head. He does not want to talk about Richard or the land claim. He does not want to revisit the past. He wants to reach out and remove her glasses.
“You know, he’s never really told me what happened –”
“I may have said a few things,” he allows, shrugging. “We were both pretty angry. Upset.” He feels cornered,resentful. For some time they sit in silence, drinking the coffee Lola brings in thick china cups.
“You haven’t been happy, have you –”
He shifts in irritation. Happiness: people are always going on about it, about their right to it and their search for it. As long as you’re happy. Makes him sick, really.
“Why did you stay away for so long? Was it the claim, or –”
“I don’t know, Ann.
Murmuring a vague response, Billy stands, relieved to be finished. His face is hot, and as he heads for the door, hedoesn’t realize, at first, that Gerald is still speaking to him: “I’d really like to show you the place.” As they go down the stairs into the lobby, Gerald points out the teak front doors (“dropped five thousand bucks on them”). Outside, he insists Billy see the course. Boarding a golf cart, they hum down an asphalt path toward the green glow of the fairways. “This is a Phil Waits course,” Gerald tells him as they draw up on a knoll. Before them, as far as they can see, sprinklers fling long, shuddering plumes over the grass. Billy does not know who Phil Waits is, but he catches the pride in Gerald’s voice as he explains how he and Phil worked on the design together. He keeps glancing at Billy, eager for his approval, it seems, and though Billy responds with an occasional nod or grunt, there’s such an air of unreality about it all, such a feeling of bleakness, that he has trouble staying focused. And the sun beats down on the emerald fairways; and the sprinklers go on shushing and jiggering; and the sweat is prickling inside his shirt.
An hour later, arriving at the Harbour, he walks to Whitbread’s store. A new cement-block extension runs into a field, but the old country storefront persists, its tall show-windows plastered with the week’s specials. Taking a cart, he heads toward the produce section. When the trees are all gone, the people will be gone . For some time he stands without moving, as other shoppers push past: Fred Plante’s words opening a vast space, invisible to the eye, but felt – a chill fleeing over it like a breeze shivering the surface of a lake.
A minute later, he sees Ann Scott at the pharmacy counter. She is talking to a clerk and at first doesn’t notice him approach.
“Well!” she says, colouring.
“Thought you’d gone back to the Falls.”
“I’ve got a painting going – couldn’t leave it.” She goes on watching him, as if trying to make out exactly what or who he is; after her warmth at Inverness, he is taken aback.
He waits while she makes her purchase, then they go outside, into the sun, and walk to Lola’s restaurant, where they take a table on the empty deck. She has put on sunglasses with outsized frames, which give her the look of some exotic insect. He asks about her painting.
“Here’s Lola,” Ann says, and for a couple of minutes they deal with Lola.
“How’s your painting?” he persists, after the woman goes off.
“It’s so fragile at this point. I can’t really say much about it.” For a moment she is silent, then the huge dark eyes fix on him. “It was good to see you and Richard talking again.” She pauses, and when he doesn’t respond, she tries again: “I know things weren’t good between you when you left –” He shakes his head. He does not want to talk about Richard or the land claim. He does not want to revisit the past. He wants to reach out and remove her glasses.
“You know, he’s never really told me what happened –”
“I may have said a few things,” he allows, shrugging. “We were both pretty angry. Upset.” He feels cornered,resentful. For some time they sit in silence, drinking the coffee Lola brings in thick china cups.
“You haven’t been happy, have you –”
He shifts in irritation. Happiness: people are always going on about it, about their right to it and their search for it. As long as you’re happy. Makes him sick, really.
“Why did you stay away for so long? Was it the claim, or –”
“I don’t know, Ann.
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