Waiting for Time (10 page)

“Is it possible to check this book out?” she asks.

“No—none of this stuff can be removed from the archive,” Mark drops his hands from the ledger, reluctantly it seems, and steps back.

“Well then, I'll have to read it right here—maybe you'll let me have your chair,” Lav moves around him to the straight backed wooden chair he has pushed up to the heating pipe. “How late does the archive stay open?”

“Two more hours.”

She nods, says thank you, nods again. Mark doesn't move. Once again she tells him she expects him to be in the office tomorrow morning. “We'll talk then,” she says, she even smiles. At last, somewhat reluctantly, he goes.

An awkward person. He must have expected something, some reaction she had not given—but what?

Lav dismisses Mark Rodway from her mind. Folding her coat into a cushion she sits down, tilting the chair back just as he had done. She is happy with this small, contained mystery, glad to be distracted from the larger, uncontained mysteries of fish and men. Pleased with the feel of the leather bound book, with its musty smell, with the square, solid weight of it on her knees. Lav rests her legs, unusually long for a woman, on the heating pipe and begins to read.

At first only her own name is legible. Then, slowly turning the pages, she deciphers other names: Meg, Ned, Ben—and the name of the place—Cape Random.

All the rest is a tangle of words, words crossing and criss-crossing, words over words, unrelated words twining, trailing between lines, twisting around margins, like a garden gone wild, a chaotic extravagance of flowers and weeds, shrubs, vegetables and bush, all growing together, covering every inch of paper.

She is almost ready to give up, to take herself home and to bed, to fortify herself for tomorrow. The book is half closed when her eye catches a fragment of sentence.

“…better off if Ellsworth hung Ned…” she reads—and words become voice. She hunkers down, tracking Lavinia's child-like hand, feeling along the stem, through the undergrowth, untangling her words from those others who have written around and over and through her story.

Much later when the smartly dressed attendant taps Lav on the shoulder, she has only gotten to the second page of the journal. Blinking myopically she swims up from the net of words, up through layers of years, up into fluorescent light and the faint smell of scorched rubber rising from her boots.

Lav has the impression that the librarian has been standing beside her for some time. Trying to assume a professional manner, she gets to her feet, explains that she has not finished, that she will have to take the Ellsworth Ledger with her.

That will be impossible, the young woman says. The archive contains only original documents and these cannot be removed. She might copy the section needed—but even that seems unnecessary since the material already exists on microfiche in the main library.

Turning the book so that the librarian can see the words “Ellsworth Journal” on the front cover, Lav explains that this material is invaluable—necessary for research she is doing on shipping in the 19th century. “I must have it in the original—I'll do whatever's necessary, sign for it, make a deposit.” she produces a handful of plastic cards that identify her as a Canadian citizen, an Associate of the National Research Council, a contributor to Queen's Alumni Fund, an employee of the Department of Fisheries, a MasterCard holder, a member of some forgotten group called The Industry and Science Seminar, a volunteer at the National Gallery, a B positive blood donor.

The beautiful young woman will not be moved. She holds out her hand for the book, watches impassively as Lav struggles into her wrinkled coat, then walks her to the door.

Hearing the lock click behind her, Lav feels bereft—and guilty. She hesitates in the passageway, examining this feeling, thinking about the girl named Lavinia Andrews, about the family that may well be her family, wishing there was a way she could have taken the book home.

The journal has kept for more than a hundred and sixty years, it will keep until tomorrow. Even as she tells herself this, Lav knows she will have to go back, ask the librarian to keep the book on reserve. Of course no one can take it out, still, someone, maybe even Mark Rodway, might come in to read it. She knocks loudly on the door which is opened immediately by the attendant, obviously on her way out. With an air of one doomed to martyrdom she lets Lav back in, turns on the lights and makes out a “hold” card which she clips onto the book.

This time they leave together, walking in silence through deserted tunnels, up the echoing iron steps and out into the damp night. When Lav realizes that the attendant is walking, not to the parking lot but to a bus stop at the corner, she calls after her asking if she would like a lift.

The girl hesitates only a moment before coining over to the car. She smiles and shrugs, having dropped her official manner she seems much younger. “Might just as well—I probably missed the last bus on your account anyway,” she says ungraciously—making Lav reflect that she must curb this impulse to give lifts to strangers.

Her name is Lori Sutton, a commerce student who has taken a night job in the archive. It's a good place to work, she tells Lav, hardly anyone comes in at night so it's easier to study than in the small flat she shares with two friends.

“On Saturdays I work in a shop in the Village Mall, they only pay minimum wage but I get a discount on clothes,” she eyes Lav's rumpled coat and suggests she drop into the shop sometime. “We've got some beautiful coats in right now—that new shiny stuff—looks like satin but it's waterproof and don't wrinkle.”

She continues her easy chatter, nodding to left or right as they come to intersections.

Lav is no longer listening. Her mind is filled with the image of a girl sitting beside the sea writing. She reflects on what she's just read, comparing Lavinia Andrews' arrival at: Cape Random with the arrival her mother described. She speculates on how the Ellsworth Journal could have gotten into the Maritime Archives, remembers her mother's saying, “The child's father came from the Maritimes.” Lav remembers playing with the word—merrytime, marrytime, maritimes…how romantic it had once sounded. She is dizzy with words, faint with hunger.

Lori Sutton shouts, “Stop!” and Lav manages to bring the car to a neck-jarring halt. Lori tells Lav she has just driven down a perpendicular hill and crossed three one-way streets—but it's all right, “We weren't caught and this is where I live.”

They are parked in front of a row of narrow houses, all attached, all painted the same dark oily colour, each house has three concrete steps leading up to a peeling door.

Lori points at a house identical to its neighbours, “See, up there—that's our flat—the one on top. Next month we'll get drapes for that window. We're getting mats this month. It's a nice place, really—see how we even got a little balcony by the window!”

Lav glances up) at the third storey, at the bright, uncurtained window looking out on a rickety wooden fire escape, knowing that what she sees is not what the girl beside her sees. Lav wonders if she had ever in her life been so young, so pleased with herself, so confident?

Having pointed out her apartment, Lori Sutton shows no sign of going into it. She leans back and continues the story Lav has missed the beginning of, “…but I couldn't see any sense to marryin' a fisherman—so I broke up with him. There's no life in Chance Harbour, no life and no fun. I tell ya girl, a person can't live without a bit of fun—a bit of fun and a bit of life around 'em. Now here in town there's always somethin' goin' on day and night,” Lori gestured to the dingy street.

While Lori talks Lav looks at the street, which is empty except for two leather jacketed teenagers lounging on the steps of a house four doors down. Street lights cast an ominous mauve glow, barely penetrating the fog that seems to rise from the gritty sidewalks, from the filthy snow piled around each pole. On the opposite side of the street six boarded-up houses await demolition. A billboard proclaiming “Luxury apartments now renting” has been covered with fluorescent graffiti of the most unimaginative kind.

“Why not marry a fisherman?” Lav asks.

The question brings such an incredulous look to the pert little face that Lav wants to laugh—does laugh.

“What? Marry a fisherman—marry a fisherman and miss all this!”

Lori Sutton is enthralled, captivated by this place where streets exist, where there are sidewalks and street-lights, where there are jobs, money, men and little flats for girls such as herself—clever girls, girls brave enough to leave Chance Harbour.

The young woman radiates impatience, is frantic to learn everything and to learn it as fast as possible. She says so: “I got to catch up on the townies,” she says with a laugh, ticking off the things she must catch up on: the proper way to talk, what clubs to go to, how to make salads from things she's never eaten, how to recognize the right kind of music. She must learn the names of popular musicians, learn how to paint her eyes, how to make money, how to choose wine, choose dresses, choose carpets, furniture—men.

Lav finds herself thinking uncharitable thoughts about Lori Sutton, wondering if she is this frank with everyone. She concludes that this young woman cannot be as ingenuous as she seems, has probably calculated the appeal of unguarded enthusiasm.

“…I wasted my first year—hardly left residence. I was a real mouse, but that was before I met Kim and Treese—before I got into Commerce and started going out with Darren.…”

Lori has noticed Mark Rodway and is interested, “I saw you talkin' to him—he's gorgeous! I'm still not sure how serious I am about Darren. Anyway, he's up in Lab City on a work-term right now—besides, there's no harm in keepin' an eye out for prospects.…”

She finally runs down. Momentarily self-conscious, perhaps regretting her frankness, she thanks Lav politely and gets quietly out of the car. As Lav watches the girl go into the shabby house it occurs to her that the conversation has been very like the one she hoped to have with the witch-woman she picked up on Signal Hill—a lesson on survival in this damp and dismal place.

As she turns the car around and retraces her way through the labyrinth of one-way streets, Lav is not thinking of Lavinia Andrews the journal woman, nor of Wayne Drover the man from Ottawa, but of Lori Sutton and her philosophy.

“I tell ya, girl, a person can't live without a bit of fun—a bit of fun and a bit of life around 'em,” she repeats the words aloud. Tired as she is they make her smile.

four

The power of imagination over memory, the power of choice over forgetfulness. Lav is sure, or tells herself she is sure, she has not imagined her past. She would like to be sure she has not forgotten important parts of it—but knows this to be untrue. She has forgotten—and deliberately.

In the days before the arrival of Wayne Drover the office takes on a life of its own. Under Alice's supervision desks, computers and filing cases, magically filled with files, roll into place. Melba, the smoker, is installed in the general office and the ragged collection of blue books is packed away in acid-free cartons.

On Wednesday Wayne Drover arrives, hurrying towards her, hand outstretched, saying “I'm only here to help,” or has she imagined these words to fulfil Mark's prediction?

Trailing him are two younger men who look like junior auditors. Lav does not go towards them but waits in the doorway of her office.

She estimates Wayne Drover to be in his late thirties—probably a year or two younger than she is—and an inch or two shorter. His hair, longer than is fashionable, is untidy, his tie is loose. He carries an oversized briefcase, which, with his billowing trench coat, gives him the appearance of taking up more space than he does. It also makes the men behind him look tidier, smaller, more buttoned-down than they probably are.

“Wayne Drover and team,” he announces, turning aside to plant a loud kiss on the cheek of Alice O'Reilly who, smiling and blushing, kisses him back.

Before Lav has time to register surprise at this he is shaking her hand, “Glad to meet you, Dr. Andrews—your friend in Policy and Programs suggested I drop by,” looking straight into her eyes he smiles. His face is round and guileless.

“Have you read that preliminary report?” She asks this without a smile or a word of welcome. Mark was wrong about one thing—she is not going to like Wayne Drover.

“Not really,” he says and follows her, standing in the doorway of her office, surveying the room. “Cheap furniture,” he says, and indeed the sofa groans as he throws himself down on its dusty-rose cushions.

Lav goes to sit behind her desk, as far from him as she can get. Political appointees like Wayne Drover, Philip used to call them information managers, consider it a handicap to know what is contained in the packages they manage, and so, knowing what the answer will be, she asks if he would like to see their material.

“Wouldn't do any good. I'm no scientist—I'm taking Dr. Farman's opinion that the report you sent up to Ottawa is wrong, dead wrong. ‘Basically flawed’ was what Dr. Farman said—that's good enough for me. Mind?” he is patting his pockets in that absentminded way smokers search for cigarettes.