If Only …

Samson Spinner watched the passengers disembark from the Gulf Queen, jostling and laughing, on a dazzling Gulf Islands summer day. He wondered, once again, why he turned up every time the ferry came in on a summer weekend, disgorging happy, often festive, people, while he failed to dispel his own mood, which was a blend of illusory optimism and looming disappointment. And of course, he knew why.

He stared across at a group of four women of a certain age, close to his own, one of whom seemed to stare his way, nodded, smiled, and … my God! … could it be … ? But no, it wasn’t. It never was, and no amount of wishful thinking was going to change that, was it?

If only … he wondered how many other people were tormented by that futile sentiment of … what was it? Regret? Remorse? Repentance? All of the above? What if I had … ? Or followed Annabelle Bell-Atkinson on election night and considered the other of the two diverging roads … the one that would have led to …

If only he had honoured the half-promises he had made to the widow, Thelma Spooner, when they were both young and she ran the post office. He smiled, once more remembering the time they had held a mock wedding. It had been a means of getting the provincial government road crews to save the old wedding tree they were supposed to cut down for a highway extension, and instead divide the new road into two to save the towering maple. They’d had champagne, and Samson had carved their names into a heart on the trunk, like kids do, prompting Thelma to say it was nice to have something in writing. And they had kissed, and the guests had applauded.

Those guests had long since stopped asking Samson if he had heard from Thelma, who, after accepting that there was not going to be a proposal unless she made it—and she was too damn proud, and had expected more of him, to do that—had been offered and had taken a supervisory job with Canada Post in Calgary.

She had left on a long weekend just like this one—sunny, warm, filled with promise for some. Since then she had sent him a couple of birthday cards with two kisses and love and best wishes from “always your friend, Thelma.”

There had remained a slight connection, through Thelma’s daughter, but then Heather had moved her riding club to Sidney on Vancouver Island, along with her two daughters and a son and her husband. Heather had always continued being civil to Samson, but with a distance about her. She had once remarked that she had been to Calgary and stayed with her mother, who remained single. Thelma, she said, appeared to concentrate her interests on her work at Canada Post, and the performances of the Calgary Flames. She said that her mother sent him her regards.

Samson had had on-and-off relationships, all of which finished as off, and had stayed unattached. Somehow none of them matched up to that first love, Thelma.

Should … had been a recurring thought for Samson since she had left. Should I call her? Should I ask her if …? But he hadn’t, beyond a couple of Christmas cards wishing her seasonal joy and such, and those cards and good intentions had fallen by the way the last couple of years.

What if he had followed his first instincts and asked her to marry him, instead of letting doubts and uncertainty, and maybe a lack of confidence, dictate the future, which was now the present. What if?

“Samson.”

He was snapped out of his reverie by a voice at his side. It was his recently arrived young relative and namesake, Sam Spinner from Newfoundland, who had just finished building a classic dry-stone wall on the old Spinner property, Samson’s home. The wall had become a point of interest since Silas Cotswold had run a piece about it in The Tidal Times: “An Ancient Craft Come Home.” Silas had even included graphics showing how the walls were constructed so that no matter the slope of the land, they remained horizontal. And he’d thrown in the information that the wallers of yore slyly included little runs that led rabbits to a surprise ending and supper for the labour force. The result had been a flow of Inlet people, and some from Salt Spring, to see the structure, and half a dozen—so far—orders for Sam to build similar walls.

“You meeting someone?”

Samson scanned the final few passengers leaving the Queen. “Not today,” he replied.

“You looked like you were expecting somebody. They miss the boat, maybe?”

Somebody certainly did. “Maybe.” Then, “What about you? You expecting somebody?”

Sam smiled and nodded at the last passenger, a young woman trundling a travelling case on wheels and making hard going of pulling the thing because one of the wheels had come adrift. He answered as both of them went to lend a hand.

“It’s Cathy,” he said. “She’s a Sloan, from Marystown. Fishing family. We were unofficially engaged, and I wrote and asked her to come after Rachel said I could have that small cottage on her property—with caveats. She said I can stay in the cottage and Cathy will have one of the extra rooms in Rachel’s house until we get properly engaged and then married. She said she’s old-fashioned and that’s the rule in her house.”

“Not something many would want to dispute,” Samson laughed.

He reached Cathy Sloan and hoisted her case while Sam hugged the girl and lifted her off her feet. They headed for Rachel’s pickup, which had lately also become a waller’s busy work truck.

After they got Cathy organized, and the girl and Rachel sat down for tea and talk, Sam said, “I tried to get her come with me at the start, but she wasn’t sure, so far from home. She kept saying, ‘But what if … ?’ She never said as much, but she meant if it—we—didn’t work out. What then? Because you never know, do you?”

Samson said, “No, you don’t. But there’s only one way to know for sure. And I can tell you that ignoring ‘What if?’ and getting on with it is a hell of a sight better than later on saying, ‘If only …’”

Samson stopped his endless, fruitless checking of the Gulf Queen passengers … except for the occasional long summer weekend, when he happened to be at the wharf.