Neighbourly Treats

The Inlet was astir with rumours about the new people moving into the big house that sat atop and back from the long slope above the ferry terminal. The house had stood empty for two years before renovations started six months before. Local trades were politely turned down for the work; a gang of incomers and their tools and equipment arrived on the Monday ferry and left on Fridays, saying nothing.

But now there was movement, and an event, announced on The Tidal Times’ front page. “A meet-and-greet from our new neighbours at their open house,” with a two-hour window on Friday afternoon.

“That’s exciting,” Maggie Wilson said.

“I heard it’s the Canucks’ new goalie,” one voice said. “Rolling in dough. Gonna commute to home games.”

Another had heard it was a weekend getaway for U2, Bono having being smitten by the West Coast. “When he was hitchhiking that time in West Van and that Oilers’ player, Gilbert Brule, picked him up and gave him a lift to Horseshoe Bay.”

“All will be disclosed,” Finbar O’Toole offered sagely.

The Times reminded its readers that it was a tradition in the Inlet to welcome new incomers with a small gift or, as an option, a personal skills performance.

Maggie Wilson (née Margarita Consuela Pereyra-Mendez) decided she would open proceedings on Friday, on the makeshift outdoor plywood stage, with a Spanish dance theme. (The house’s occupants had apologized to the gathering for not inviting them inside because the place was still a work in progress.) Maggie had been practising the various styles—bachata, salsa, paso doble, and tango—alongside YouTube versions in front of the TV. She had abandoned the bachata, with its demanding side-to-side, hip-move requirements, when her left side locked and stayed that way for an hour.

She had also brought an Iberian-themed gift in the shape of a pair of castanets she claimed once belonged to one of General Franco’s girlfriends. She had acquired them on her and Lennie’s honeymoon. Maggie remembered the trip because at the Madrid airport, she had ordered a gin and tonic and the bartender, when he had finally quit pouring the gin, waiting for her to say “when,” had no room left for the tonic. In the city she had noticed a souvenir stand with a handsome young fellow who waved her over. He brought the castanets out from an “especial” supply for the señorita—which Lennie gruffly corrected to “señora, now, pal”—and assured her of their provenance.

Maggie had giggled, and tried out her European. “Merci, mister.”

To Lennie later, she smiled, “It was almost like he was expecting me.”

“Saw you coming, anyway.”

Now she clicked the castanets over her head and swooped into an Argentine tango, a dance that relies greatly on improvisation, which was a good thing for the unknowing spectators for whom Maggie’s performance could have been anything, including some kind of mating dance. “Olé,” she sang and did a thirty-second gig that left her panting.

Finbar O’Toole stepped up and predictably began his whining, dissonant version of “Danny Boy.”

After two lines, “How can he be so bad?” Broadway-theatre-school-bound Connie Wilson mused.

“Practice,” explained Samson Spinner, nearby. “Lots of practice.”

Mark Clements, pilot, father of Alun and Jillian, and owner of the small and barely surviving float-plane charter outfit, waved a huge printed sign offering a one-time deal of twenty-five percent off his usual rates to Vancouver or Victoria for all new residents, or anyone else.

His sign was suddenly torn from his grip and flung into the bay about a hundred metres away by the downdraft from a massive AgustaWestland AW101 helicopter, which roared in over the house and drifted down to settle like a giant butterfly, or praying mantis, Mark thought, on the front lawn of newly sodded turf.

Mark knew that anyone who could afford to fly in this piece of advanced aviation technology, with a value of $21-plus million and its three pilots, was not going to be persuaded by his offer. Nor would he or she even deign to step into his DHC-2 Beaver, even if he did clean out the McDonald’s wrappers and duty-free Jim Beam Red Stag bottles dumped by his recent fares of three Americans from Portland, who bitched about everything during the ninety-minute trip to the fishing lodge west of Rivers Inlet, and forgot to tip.

“Bastards,” Mark said, all-inclusively.

His teacher wife, Julie, frowned at him and nodded that the kids were close by. Jillian grinned and flashed her dad a thumbs-up. Then she took off to the shoreline and waded in to retrieve Mark’s bargain-flight notice. Connie Wilson went with her for company, and safety.

Hyacinth Jakes had arrived from the seniors residence. She waved at the faces now at the windows of the big house and broke into “Abide with Me,” ornamenting the hymn with a Hohner Special 20 harmonica accompaniment.

“Almost like Dylan,” noted Lennie Wilson, who was standing well apart from Maggie as she rested after her performance, fanning her face with anther souvenir from their honeymoon trip. “A bit, anyway,” he corrected, as three of Hyacinth’s chords veered sharply adrift.

The Reverend Amber Rawlings said, “Amen,” as Hyacinth’s final note faded, and then herself pitched in with “Amazing Grace.”

The people inside the house had opened the windows and were applauding the performances: “Bravo!” and “Encore!” they called for the reverend, who was so inspired that she started to chant the Twenty-third Psalm before Rachel Spinner coughed loudly and indicated that there were others waiting to perform a welcoming act.

Or, in the case of Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, offer a gift.

With a flourish she swept the tea-towel cover off a tray of her appropriately named rock buns and laid it on the front step. The big double doors opened and a hand appeared and lifted the tray inside. Ten minutes later the tray was replaced, with a thank you note on it, and all of the buns intact except one with a bite out of it.

Erik Karlsson, great-great-nephew of the late Svensen and “Second Swede,” as he had become known, hurried forward, took a stance with the five-string banjo he had recently purchased on Amazon along with an Earl Scruggs instruction book, and broke into the first bars of “Dueling Banjos.” He paused, head cocked, and waited, apparently expecting the opposing duelling bit to start up from somewhere else, and when it didn’t, played the opening riffs again … and again … and waiting …

At this point an exodus from the big house began, a line of people headed toward the ferry terminal. Two climbed into the giant helicopter—which was when things went awry. The expensive chopper had landed on a particularly soggy area on the sodded lawn, and had already begun to lean a tad to port. The addition of passengers finished the job; one wheel and its strut supports were suddenly below the surface.

A conference among the big bird’s three pilots concluded that they were grounded for the immediate future.

“Shoot!” remarked someone in the remaining lineup. “I can’t be late. Toronto connection!”

Connie Wilson pointed to the speaker. “That looks like Ryan Jackson! He’s in that new series, Coast Mysteries or something. I’m sure that’s him.”

“He’s in everything,” Annabelle Bell-Atkinson grunted, apparently still affronted over her rock buns and not impressed by the renowned actor—if indeed that’s who it was, though she had to admit it looked like him, as he turned a warm smile on Connie, who was helping Jillian hold up the rescued, though now dampish, sign.

The possible actor took a quick look. “Want to come for a ride?”

Connie grabbed Jillian’s hand. “Let’s go!”

“All aboard,” said Mark Clements.