Thelma

It seemed as though every ferry carried someone who had arrived for Rachel Spinner’s funeral. Most of them had responded to one of the emails sent on Samson’s behalf by the Clements twins, who frequently rescued Samson from issues with the computer.

The twins had followed up the emailings by taking up sentry and welcoming-committee duties at the ferry dock, where they latched onto one of the first arrivals. Aunt Jillian—their mother Julie’s older sister—was making one of her infrequent return trips to the Inlet. And as the kids fully expected, she arrived from her executive position in London, England, laden with gifts in colourful bags from the city’s best-known shops.

Of course Thelma Spooner arrived, to cry and to bid her old friend goodbye. And of course Thelma drove up to the wedding tree on Ennerdale Road, where once Samson had thwarted the plans of the provincial highways department to bring the ancient maple down. He had organized a “wedding” with himself and Thelma as the principals and had carved their initials and a heart into the thick bark. The carving had joined many more put there since Spinner’s Inlet had been named and populated. The highways crew had altered their plans: the new stretch of highway divided and ran around each side of the maple.

Thelma had taken Samson’s actions to be a promise that their romance was real and the carving a proposal. Samson seemed to have thought differently. Thelma had moved on from her job at the Spinner’s Inlet post office to a promotion and a supervisory position with Canada Post in Calgary.

Samson had watched her arrive off the ferry, had offered a smile, a “How’re you doin’?” and a tentative hug, which Thelma returned. They had arrived at the old tree at the same time. He looked sheepish as she traced the carving of their names with a finger. Samson thought Thelma looked much younger than her sixty years. He sucked in his belly and stood straighter. He sighed as he recalled a recent discussion with his young Maritimes relative, Sam Spinner. “Ignoring ‘What if?’” he had said then, “and getting on with it is a hell of a sight better than later on saying, ‘If only.’”

“Close thing,” Thelma offered, nodding to their initials, which were covered by thickening bark.

Samson nodded. “It was.” And thought, Christ!

Beside them, a slamming of a car door and an overly cheerful voice. “Thelma! I thought it was you.” Danny Sakiyama, the apparently ageless letter carrier. “Haven’t seen you since Calgary, and wasn’t that a night to remember?” He nudged her; Thelma gave him an impatient glance and stepped away.

“I was just saying …” Danny turned to Samson.

“I heard you,” Samson snapped.

Danny had always been considered a ladies’ man. But always short-term. He had never found one he wanted to stay with, nor one who wanted to stay with him, given his reputation.

Samson wondered if Thelma knew that—or if it was any of his concern to wonder.

“He was just saying,” Thelma explained, “that we had a couple of drinks last month in Calgary when we were both at a Canada Post Western employees convention. I don’t know how late Mr. Sakiyama stayed, but it sounds as though he enjoyed it.”

Samson chuckled. Then he took a closer look at Danny. The letter carrier had foregone his standard Canada Post uniform in favour of what, at a stretch, could be called a suit. It was a pinstripe item that might have been in fashion thirty years before. It was ill-fitting, leaving an impression that Danny might have dressed himself during a high wind, and possibly in the dark.

Samson smiled.

Afterward they joined a crowd at the Cedars, people squeezing in among the half-dozen tables, and a few pulling up extra chairs. They shared Rachel Spinner stories and talked of how the funeral had gone.

The cortege had been led by the veterinarian Scott McConville, with Rachel’s last setter, Fleet, on a leash in his right hand, and the late Swede’s Conrad IV on his left. The dogs had taken to each other, apparently having found a canine camaraderie in a shared sense of loss. Fleet even stopped along the way and showed remarkable patience while Conrad spent a moment at a BC Hydro pole. Constable Ravina Sidhu had taken bugle duty and played a somewhat quavering version of “D’ye Ken John Peel?”—which she had learned from a combined YouTube video and Rachel’s cellphone ring tone. This was respectfully received.

Connie Wilson attended, on a week’s bereavement leave from the American Musical and Dramatic Academy. She had returned on a business-class ticket. This was a gift from Gilbert Chen who, knowing of Rachel’s admiration for the girl’s talents, and Rachel’s substantial but unheralded contribution to the community’s fund to help Connie get to the New York school, had phoned her and said, “Get out to LaGuardia, ASAP.” Connie had sung “Amazing Grace” to close the service, and no eye was dry when she finished.

Samson enjoyed seeing the mixture of Spinner’s Inlet’s population. Ali Hanif was involved in a game of darts with Jack Steele and Finbar O’Toole. Check your wallet, Ali, Samson thought. Ali’s wife, Aila, listened to whatever Anwen Brannigan had just said, and laughed aloud. The Hanif kids and a gang of others were lined up at table of soft drinks and cookies. Constable Ravina Sidhu leaned against the back wall, happily overseeing everything.

As Samson watched, Thelma was hugged by Sheila Martin, an old friend, and by Sheila’s daughters, Jillian and Julie, who had been toddlers when Thelma ran the post office. She had always had a treat for them behind the counter. And by the Clements twins, who were competing for attention from their Aunt Jillian. Sheila Martin said, “Almost like old times,” and wiped the corner of an eye with a tissue. Families.

He noticed Thelma looking at the familiar blue-on-white ferry schedule folded in one hand and then at her wristwatch. The Gulf Queen was due in an hour, departing for Swartz Bay. Not that it was ever on time.

Samson also noticed couples. Hyacinth Jakes and Willard Starling from the seniors complex, holding hands and nodding along to the music. Cedars’ owner Matthew Blacklock had chosen several Second World War songs from the pub’s playlist, for Rachel. Dr. Daisy Chen and Erik Karlsson, the Second Swede, slow dancing in circles off in a tiny corner. Young Sam Spinner and his bride-to-be, Cathy Sloan, soon to be living in the house Rachel had bequeathed to them, linking fingers under their table.

The lawyer Ezekial Watson was being introduced to Thelma by Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, who had assumed a hostess role for the day and who, Samson had to admit, was doing a sterling job of it. She was making sure that no one was left alone, that even outside visitors were being made part of the celebration of Rachel’s life, because that’s what it had become.

Annabelle had the geeks with her but had suggested they stay in the corner with their laptops and play computer chess. She had decided to watch the pair closely ever since the “Banksy” episode in the village centre. So had Constable Ravina, Annabelle had noticed.

Samson became aware that Danny Sakiyama had insinuated himself into the group alongside Thelma. Danny’s voice was never lost in a crowd. Now he was saying to Thelma, “How about them Canada Post layoffs, eh? Wonder who they’re coming after?”

Chatter died down. Cameron Girard slipped his notebook out, which got him a nod from Silas Cotswold. Silas had been lauded for a splendid, full-page obituary on Rachel in The Tidal Times.

“We’re calling the situation ‘downsizing,’” Thelma corrected Danny.

Danny frowned, seemed to be puzzled. Then after a few seconds, “You said ‘we.’ What’s that all about?”

Thelma looked up at him. “Danny, you know that I’m part of management now. Perhaps you don’t remember?”

Samson snorted. Danny glared at him.

“That’s the ‘we.’ It’s a team decision.”

Danny nodded slowly. “And how many of the ‘team’ are being ‘downsized’?” he sneered.

“Me, for one,” Thelma retorted.

“Christ!” Samson sputtered.

“I’m going to stay with Heather for a while.” Heather was her daughter who, years ago, had moved her riding club to Sidney on Vancouver Island.

People drank up and began drifting away. They stopped when Willie Whittle put down his cellphone and called for attention. “The Gulf Queen has been delayed for …” His words were lost in the laughter that greeted his announcement. Just like old times.

Delayed. Christ! Samson made for Thelma’s group and invited her to step away for a moment. It was much later when he went home. Thelma Spooner accepted an invitation to stay over with Sheila Martin.

The Clements twins got to spend another night with their Aunt Jillian. The next day their presence was required at Samson’s place, where he advised them he needed another bunch of emails sent out, invitations to a wedding, which would be held under the ancient maple on Ennerdale Road.