Hardly Working (7 page)

At ten-thirty, Lisa, Cleo and I knocked on Jake's office door.

“Come in.”

We all entered, our faces plastered with the most businesslike expressions we could muster. Ian Trutch was lounging in Jake's extra chair. He raised his hand. “Hello ladies.”

We gave a chorus of hellos.

“I was just telling Jake that I was going to have to corner Dinah to go over the figures.” Ian's smile made it clear that he wasn't just talking about numbers. Cleo nudged me hard and Lisa giggled.

I let out a long breath and said, “We just wanted to let you know that we're on our way out for the afternoon. Have a few office errands to run.”

Lisa and Cleo piped up a little too quickly, “Field work.”

“And I have to see Halliwell, the printer,” I said.

Jake wasn't used to us justifying our actions. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Our eyes were fixed on Ian. He looked at Jake as if to say, “Do they normally do this?”

We all nodded a little nervously then hurried out of the building.

“I think he bought it,” whispered Cleo.

I said, “Well if he didn't, I'm sure we'll be hearing about it.”

“And what's more, Dinah, he likes you. Milk it for all it's worth.”

I laughed. “You mean I might still have a job while the rest of you are standing in the bread line if I let the CEO crunch my numbers?”

“Something like that.”

We rushed out to Lisa's battered old rust-and-rhubarb colored VW van. She drove fast to my place. We tumbled out and raced up the stairs.

In my bedroom, Cleo said, “I hope I'm dressed okay. What does one wear to a tree-hugging anyway?” It didn't matter what
she
wore. A burlap sack would look good on her.

“Cleoooo,” sang Lisa, “we do not call it a tree-hugging. And it's not a fashion event either. McClean and Snow Incorporated are about to knock down a stand of boreal forest that is millennia old, destroying the habitat of numerous species of wildlife with the runoff polluting I don't know how many streams and fixing it so the salmon won't be returning…”

Cleo examined the polish on her nails. “Lisa, we know you believe that plants have feelings…”

“And that if their feelings are hurt they should get therapy…” I added.

“You guys….” Lisa laughed.

“And animal rights?” said Cleo.

“If you swat a fly around Lisa, she's likely to try CPR on it….” I countered.

Lisa clarified herself. “Before giving it a dignified funeral.”

We all grinned, then Cleo looked at me. “Uh, Dinah? Do you actually know what you're looking for?”

“Sure.” I peered out from behind the high-rise of cardboard boxes that had inhabited the corner of my bedroom for ages. “My protest-against-the-big-money-grubbing-corporation wardrobe.”

Lisa smiled. “We all go through it. You'll outgrow it.”

“Outgrow what?”

“Dressing up for protests. You'll be wearing your worst rags at the next one. These kind can get messy.”

“Lisa, when I left Vancouver Island, I promised myself I would try not to look like a shrubbie from the Island. If I can just figure out which box the damned clothes are in,” I murmured.

Cleo said, “It's important to consider your wardrobe at all times. There could be some interesting men there. When they come to arrest us, there could be men in uniform. I love men in uniform.”

Lisa said, “You love men…period.”

“Ha. You're right.” Cleo took in the varnished pine floorboards, oyster-white paint that was no longer fresh, and mountain of cardboard boxes. “You moved into this place…when, Dinah? Three years ago?”

“Two and a half.” I tried not to sound defensive.

“When are you planning on unpacking them?” Lisa asked.

“Just these boxes I haven't unpacked. I had them sent over later but there isn't enough closet space. So they're staying there. This is my storage depot.”

Cleo stopped flicking her Ray-Bans back and forth and parked them on her head. “Come on now, Lisa. Poor Dinah. Give her time. Moving is traumatic. It's number two after divorce.”

“I wouldn't know anything about divorce,” Lisa muttered. “Never having been married myself in the first place.”

I had once caught a glimpse of the pile of
Bride
magazines stashed in Lisa's desk drawer at work. They definitely marred her free and easy earth-mother image.

“To hear Fran tell it, we're not missing a thing,” said Cleo. “She's always saying there's nothing like marriage to cure you of wanting to be married.”

This was one conversation I had no intention of getting
involved in. I set a carton precariously on top of another and was not quite in time to catch it as it tumbled to the floor. The three of us winced in unison as its contents tinkled dangerously.

“Not the Limoges, I hope,” said Cleo.

I shifted the box gently out of the way. “I have no idea and I'm not going to open it to see. Then I'd have to deal with it. You know I'm cleaning-impaired.”

Lisa smiled, revealing her big teeth. “Confession is the first step toward recovery.” She glanced at her psychedelic Swatch. “Just grab something so we can go, will you, Dinah. We're late. The others will be there already.”

I tore frantically at packing tape and box flaps. My eye lit on something charcoal black. “Aha.” I held it up, triumphant.

Lisa made a face. “You cannot wear a Chanel suit to an environmental protest.”

“Yes, she can,” said Cleo. “She can wear whatever she likes.”

I was already pulling off my office skirt and scrutinizing the little black suit with the red trim. “It's a demoted Chanel suit. I got it at a secondhand place. It was a steal. Secondhand means it's recycled so that makes it environmentally correct, right? Now where have those flats gotten to…?”

Lisa shrugged.

After a burst of haphazard ironing, elaborate squirming and a tiny intervention with a safety pin at bust level, I was dressed. I grabbed the deluxe knapsack I'd prepared and followed them out. As we ran down my stairs, I felt proud. We were a squad, ready to lay down our lives for a stand of ancient trees. Well…maybe not our lives, but part of a sunny October day. Or so I thought until we were standing in front of Lisa's van.

While Lisa was doing a last check of the heavy chains and padlocks in the back, Cleo leaned into me and whispered, “None of that stuff is touching my body. I agreed to be a presence but I'm not chaining myself to a damned thing.
You know how hard it is to get grease or pitch out of corduroy? This is my best Lands' End protest outfit. I'd planned on wearing it to the next No-Global.”

“Get in, girls,” ordered Lisa. “It's already going to be hell finding parking.”

The van wheezed into gear and coughed and spat all the way up West Fourth. I was in the back, and Cleo, up in the passenger seat, turned back to face me. Over the sound of the engine, she said, “This apartment is definitely a step up from your last.”

“Ten steps,” I mumbled.

“I remember Dinah's last place well,” said Lisa.

“It could have housed morgue overflow,” said Cleo.

“It wasn't that cold,” I protested.

“No? You didn't notice my fingers turning blue from hypothermia whenever I came to visit you? And those clog dancers living overhead were amazing.”

“The upstairs tenants
were
a little noisy.”

“Your landlord had a nerve. Calling it a basement suite,” Cleo said. “It was a bunker. It was almost completely underground.”

“It was a bit dark,” I admitted. I didn't tell them that it had been so dark that once during a power failure, I thought I'd gone blind. My only consolation in that moment was the possibility of expanding my love life to include ugly men with beautiful voices.

“If you can just get those last few boxes unpacked, you'll be all set,” said Lisa.

It was a very big if.

We rode along in silence for a while. Then I said what we'd all been thinking. “I sure hope nobody finks on us.”

“It was a previous commitment,” said Lisa. “If it gets back to Trutch we'll just tell him that protests like this are part of Green World's constitution.” She made a fast turn and came to a screeching halt.

“Stanley Park?” Cleo raised her eyebrows.

“This is it,” said Lisa. “This is our destination.”

I was confused. I'd been expecting a long ride into an immense dark rain forest.

“Douglas firs. And not just one but four,” said Lisa. “They're saying that they're diseased, but it's pure propaganda….”

I laughed.

“Okay. Let's go,” sighed Cleo, and climbed down from the van.

Lisa bulldozed ahead of us. “It's not far from here.”

I grabbed my knapsack and we followed, almost running to keep up.

When we reached the site, it was deserted.

Lisa stood immobile. “Oh my God.”

“We obviously have the wrong day.” Cleo looked a little relieved.

Lisa was close to tears. “We're too late.”

The freshly cut naked stumps of four huge Douglas firs made us all feel cheated. A couple of minutes passed before we could hear a strange low hum coming from Lisa.

“What's she doing?” whispered Cleo.

“Singing, I think.”

We decided it was better to leave Lisa alone with her grief. It was the first time I'd ever heard a hymn for a dead tree. When she was finished mourning, I held up my knapsack and said, “Now girls, come over here. I have something to show you. You have to know that I do not like to miss an opportunity. While my mother thinks that a field or a forest or a beach is a place where animals and insects regenerate the species, I happen to think that it's a nice place for a picnic.” I unzipped my deluxe knapsack to reveal plates and glasses, bread and cheeses, and a bottle of chilled white wine. “I came prepared for any eventuality. It's a beautiful day. Let's make the most of it.”

“Right on,” said Lisa.

We chose a section of beach just beyond the seawall and were just polishing off the bottle of wine when a man's voice called across to us, “Dinah? Dinah Nichols?”

I hit the ground like an infantryman under attack. “Who is it?” I hissed to Cleo.

“Big-time corporate donor,” she hissed back.

I eased up slowly, and when I saw who it was, uttered, “Tod.”

He was dressed in jogging clothes and dripping with sweat. He looked less jaunty than usual. Unsmiling. “What a stroke of luck. I tried calling you at work but you weren't there.”

“You did? Uh…”

“We have to talk. My place? Around four? It's important.” Without waiting for my answer, he turned and jogged away.

 

Lisa dropped me off at my car and I drove to Halliwell the printer's. I pushed open the door. The shop seemed deserted. “Anybody here?”

Halliwell's voice came from a distance. “Downstairs.”

I descended the narrow wooden steps and called out, “Mr. Halliwell?”

He was standing at a press, watching the paper pile up, and didn't bother to look up at me. He was tall and scrawny, more of a ghost than a man. Every word he spoke came out in a slow drawling taunt. “Well, I'll be damned. Miss Nichols in person. I feel privileged.”

“Don't I always come in person?”

“When I called your office to let you know the brochures were ready, they told me you were out and didn't know when you'd be back. Tough job, eh?” He made the huge effort of looking at me from under one eyebrow.

“Fieldwork,” I said.

He took a few leisurely steps toward me, plucked a piece
of dried seaweed from my hair and held it in front of my eyes. “Gives fieldwork a whole new definition.”

“Well…uh…we are an ecological organization, Mr. Halliwell. We actually get out there and check up on the ecology.”

“I can see you're really making…
head
way. Get it?”

“Can I see the brochures, please?”

“Over here.” He oozed over to some shelves and picked up a pile of glossy green-and-white papers. “Still have to be folded.”

“I thought your people were going to do that.” I looked closer at the type on the page. “Er…Mr. Halliwell…there's a typo here.”

He shrugged.

“It says ‘Green World is worping for you.'
Worping,
Mr. Halliwell? It's supposed to be ‘Green World is
working
for you'. Can you do them again? Correctly? I can't distribute these. This is a big event.”

“You're the creative here. I'm just the manpower. You create it, I print it. Your people should have caught that. If you don't like our prices then change printers.”

I couldn't argue. He'd been roped into donating his services by my predecessor, in exchange for his shop's name at the bottom of the brochure.

I looked at him imploringly. He shrugged again. “Sorry, Miss Nichols. No can do. I'm backed up here. Got four other jobs to do before tomorrow. But I'll tell you what. I'll throw in a bottle of White Over for ya.”

As I left his shop, with the brochures and bottle of White Over, I vowed I would start my hunt for new volunteer printers that very afternoon.

 

I stood in the centre of Tod's magnificent white bedroom.

“Are you serious?” I gasped.

“Never been so serious in my life.”

“But I…but we…”

Tod threw brand-new shirts into a Gucci suitcase. “It's a bitch but these things happen.”

“Completely bankrupt?”

“If you're going to be in this game, you have to be ready to start over. It's only money, Dinah. That's what I always say. Money is an abstract concept anyway. Some of my investments turned out to be a not-so-abstract disappointment, however. These things happen.”