Chapter 3
“A rink-a-rink-a-rink, a rink-a-dink-a-doo.” Anna Campbell laughed as she listened to her son singing his way up the walk, rattling out the rhythm with a stick against the picket fence. At the end of the walk, he turned and hurled the stick at the woodpile by the shed, then bounced up the steps and banged open the door.
“Mom! Guess what? We’re gonna get a real rink. Sister Thekla said, a real rink!”
“And how many times have I told you to open that door by the handle before you start pounding it with your shoulder? And don’t slam — ”
She was too late. Billy had already slammed the door hard enough to shake the wall. He looked back at the crucifix above the door, and then at the window that was rattling above the sink.
“You’re going to break that glass someday, and your father will have a fit. Now what’s so important?”
He was smiling up at her as he yanked off his coat and threw it over a hook. “I told Sister Thekla ’bout my new idea for building a rink at the school. And she said we’ll see about it. So I bet we’ll get one, with real boards, an’ everything.”
His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you didn’t yell like that at Sister Thekla.”
He shook his head. “I was polite. Honest.”
“Are you sure about that? Didn’t I warn you to stop pestering your teachers about the school board building a rink?”
His mother’s frown caught his attention. “Uh, oh. Did she call again?”
“Did you really ask her why Father Sullivan doesn’t use some of the bingo money to pay for your hockey boards?” She paused and shook her head. “Where did you get that notion from? Was it yours this time, or Brian’s?”
Billy couldn’t help a guilty grin. “From Dad, I guess.”
Anna’s eyes widened in alarm. “He didn’t! I should have known. Leave it to him to put you up to — ”
“Oh, no,” he interrupted, “he didn’t tell me to ask her. I just heard him talking to David, about Father Sullivan and all that money he makes on the bingo games. He was saying — ”
“My lord, you didn’t tell Sister the idea came from your father, did you?”
“No. Did she say that?”
“Of course not. She wouldn’t have.” Anna was relieved. She could only guess how many conversations about the Campbells her impulsive son had already provoked. The discussion in the teachers’ room was not hard to imagine.
Sister Thekla might well have raised the issue herself. “Can you believe it? Bold as brass. This time he wanted to know why Father Sullivan couldn’t finance this famous rink with bingo money. Imagine that, in sixth grade and he wants to run the parish.”
“But it’s so hard to be angry with him, don’t you find? Such a handsome child, with that black hair and those dark blue eyes. He looks at you with such intensity, as though the world is going to end if we don’t get a hockey rink.” That would be Billy’s teacher, Sister Monica, younger and more forgiving.
“Handsome is as handsome does, Sister. That boy has to learn his place.”
“But he’s really just an innocent,” Sister Monica would hurry to add. “The second he thinks of something, he’s out with it.”
“Then he’ll have to learn to control his impulses, won’t he, Sister?”
“Don’t you think, though, that it’s often the innocent ones like Billy who have a vocation? I know Sister Mary Catherine thought as much. And she had him for three years, didn’t she?”
Sister Thekla was not so easily distracted. “Well, vocation or no, your little innocent isn’t going to start telling the adults how to run this school. I called his mother again, and she seemed to understand the problem. I’m sure it’s not an easy task, trying to raise those two boys in the faith. I’m not sure how much support she gets from their father.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” This would be something the two nuns could agree on. Sister Monica almost whispered, “He’s a Protestant, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” the elder sister would nod sagely. “Presbyterian, I believe. Margaret would know better than me.” At this point, Sister Thekla would defer to Mrs. MacKinnon, the lay teacher on staff at St. Joseph’s, a person whose reputation as a good Christian woman would qualify her to speak of such matters without being accused of gossiping.
“Ahem, yes,” Mrs. MacKinnon would begin, and then pause for a moment to gather her recollections of the Campbell family’s history in the county of Glengarry, which had been settled first by large numbers of immigrants from the Scottish Highlands. “Yes, Angus Campbell’s father had a farm on the sixth concession, right next to Red Ranald McDonald. You know, whose daughter sings in the choir. The Campbells were Presbyterian, I believe. Actually, I know for sure, because the year Angus and Anna got married — 1938, I believe it was — my James had just left home for that job in Montreal. And he used to take the train with Angus’s cousin, who had been working in Montreal for some time. I remember, because Angus’s cousin told James that the whole family was heartbroken. I know it was big news in town, that summer.”
Mrs. MacKinnon would take a deep breath, then, and shake her head sadly. “It was a minor scandal, really. I believe his cousin was the only one from the family who went to the wedding.” She would stop again and take a sip of tea, waiting for an indication from Sister Thekla that she should continue.
From the city, and not so sensitive to the situation, Sister Monica might ask, “Were they married by a priest, Mrs. MacKinnon? Or a minister?”
But the good lady would peer over the rim of her cup and wait for a signal from the principal. Only when she got the nod, would she put down her cup and continue. “A priest, Sister. That was what kept his family away. The Campbells were death on Catholics, for generations. They were barely civil to Ranald’s family, I’m told.” Then she would sigh and add, “Of course, when you consider that the two clans were deadly enemies back in Scotland, it’s hardly surprising.”
Sister Monica would have trouble resisting the temptation to press for more details. “Then it must have been quite a love match, for Mr. Campbell to turn his back on his family, that way.”
If Sister Thekla didn’t protest immediately, Mrs. MacKinnon would likely press on. After all, it wasn’t often that a person got to retell one of the more tantalizing stories of Munro Mills. “Oh, it was that, all right. Mind you, Anna MacDonnell was quite the catch.” Then she would smile and add, “Oh, but she was bonnie, with that wavy blonde hair. And such a beautiful dancer. They used to say she looked like that highland dancer who posed for the picture on the cigarette package; you know the one.”
Only after a quick glance at Sister Thekla for any sign of a frown, would Sister Monica demand more details. “But still, Mrs. MacKinnon, to go against his family like that, was Mr. Campbell thinking of converting? Did he take instruction, do you know?”
“I don’t think he ever did,” she would respond, again lowering her voice to that confidential tone. “He never goes to church, you know, not even his own. I think probably the fact that his mother was dead and that he didn’t get along with his father, that probably made it easier for him.” She would think some more about this, while she took a sip of her tea, then add, “Young people think they can do these things and never pay a price. I’m sure they thought everyone was being silly about the difference in religion. You know, old-fashioned ideas. At any rate, they got married and moved away to Ottawa where he had that job as a car mechanic. They probably thought it wouldn’t be a problem, in a big city where nobody knew them. And besides, who really worries about children until they have them?” She would stop, then, worried that she might have gone a touch too far.
But if Sister Thekla didn’t step in, Sister Monica would probably push for still more information. “But they moved back to Munro Mills? Did he make up with his family?”
“Oh, I don’t think that brought them back. It was after their eldest, David, was born, when they came back to open up the garage. Old Mr. Campbell had died by that time. Some said it was the marriage that did it, but that’s just stuff and nonsense. He must have been over seventy when he died. His wife died much younger, a heart attack, I think. Or was it a stroke? I can’t really remember. But Angus’s father had married rather late in life. A lot of Protestants do that, you know, marry late.”
“And some of us Catholics never do.” That would be Sister Thekla, finding a polite way to end a discussion that was getting perilously close to idle gossip. And she would probably add, “But Anna Campbell has done her best to raise those two boys in the faith. So I’m sure that’s the last we’ll hear from wee Billy Campbell about building rinks with bingo money.”
“But don’t you wish we could help?” Sister Monica would feel compelled to add. “Those poor kids really should have a place to skate, and play hockey, don’t you think, Sister? To keep them out of mischief, if nothing else.”
Sister Thekla would soon put a damper on that line of thought. “That may be so, Sister Monica, but providing the children of Munro Mills with a hockey rink is not our responsibility. Needless to say, we will not be including a plea for a rink in our morning prayers, no matter how often Billy Campbell asks us to.”
Billy Campbell had no inkling that such conversations went on in the adult world. All he knew was that it was winter once again and the town of Munro Mills was still without a real hockey rink, with boards, and nets, and an ice surface you could water with a hose instead of breaking holes in the pond and trying to flood with buckets.
“Jeez, Mom. Why is everybody so mean? Don’t they know we need a real rink? Every town but ours has one. Brian says even Maxville has a covered arena, and we’re bigger. Aren’t we?”
“I know, I know,” his mother commiserated. “But we lost our arena. And there’s no money to build a new one. You’ll just have to be satisfied with the pond for another year. Just be thankful Mr. MacLennan lets you use it.”
“Huh?” Billy was puzzled. “You mean, Mr. MacLennan might stop us from playing there?”
“No, no. I’m quite sure he doesn’t mind. But just be grateful that you’re able to play hockey again, that you still have your — ”
Billy covered his ears with his hands. “Please, no, Mom! Don’t say it.”
Anna had to grin at his scrunched-up face. “Don’t say what?”
“I promise, Mom. I’ll quit complaining about a rink. Just don’t tell me that. Please, I’m begging you.”
“All right,” his mother laughed and swatted his hands away from his ears. “Go do your homework. And when you say your prayers tonight, ask God to put something in your head besides hockey rinks. Then I can stop worrying about those phone calls from Sister Thekla. That woman scares the wits out of me.”
But Anna Campbell knew she was wasting her breath. She knew her boy would go to sleep that night still praying for a hockey rink. And then he would dream about it.