Put on the Armour of Light (10 page)

C
harles
had returned to the church from the Martland house and was feverishly preparing for the board meeting that was to begin in an hour. Peter had only just completed the formal drawing of the chancel and Charles was setting it out on a table across the room from the table in the parish hall where the board held its meetings. He heard steps in the hallway.

“Pete?”

Frank Martland walked into the room carrying a large cardboard box. “Lauchlan, hello. That young man in the sanctuary said I could find you here.”

“Mr. Martland. This is a surprise. I was just visiting with your wife an hour or so ago. Can I take that from you?”

“Yes, thank you. It's a box of old clothes we had around the house. My wife wanted to give it to you.”

“That's very generous of you. But we could have arranged to have it picked up.”

“No need. No need; thought I would just bring it around myself since I was coming this way.”

“I'll just put it on the table over here.” There was an awkward moment as Charles went to put the box on the table, realized he had no hands left over to push the drawing aside, and Martland stepped in to slide the drawing farther along the table.

“I want to say, Mr. Martland, how saddened I was to hear of your partner's death. That was the reason for my visit to Mrs. Martland. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.” Not quite true but, somehow, he felt cautious about telling Martland that Trevor had urged him to make the visit.

“Very kind, I'm sure, Mr. Lauchlan. We're coping as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“Well, I'm very glad to hear that. Please let me know if I can help you out in any way.” Charles, anxious to get on with things, prepared to usher Martland to the door but Martland stood his ground, smiled, began a sentence, stopped, then began again. “You and my son are friends, I think?”

“Trevor? Yes, yes. He's in my Bible study class and in the Young People's Society, of course. And I hope to get to know him better. He'll make a fine man one day.”

“Yes, indeed. That's what I intend for him. He could be a very important man, achieve ten times more than I have.” Martland walked over to the window.

“Is anything wrong?”

“We used to be great friends, Trevor and I — but lately …” Martland paused, “It's hard to pinpoint. Then there was that business with the bail money. I wondered if he'd done it just to spite me.” He turned again to face Charles. “Or, maybe, he did it to please you?”

“Oh, I can assure you, Mr. Martland. I was as surprised by his offer as you were.”

“You didn't press him for it, then?”

“Not in the least. Dr. Skene and I planned to approach two or three others for the money. Then Trevor volunteered it — completely on his own. To be honest with you, I thought you might well object. But I was so grateful to Trevor for making my life easier; I couldn't really see the thing from your point of view.”

“Well it's damned awkward, I can tell you that, and I said as much to Trevor.”

“Yes. I think he felt badly having to cause you distress. But he was standing up for the right of everyone to have a fair trial, even those too poor to pay. That speaks very well for him, I think.”

Martland looked at Charles through narrowed eyes. “Is that what he said?”

“Well, words to that effect. He and Maggie had apparently discussed it while Dr. Skene and I were in his study making plans.”

“Miss Skene? Yes. Young ladies can put strange notions into the heads of their beaus. I hear Miss Skene has advanced ideas; votes for women, temperance, and all that.” Martland furrowed his brow. “Trevor knows what I think about these things, but perhaps she has a hold on him.”

“Are you suggesting that Maggie has something to do with Trevor's attitude toward you?”

“I don't know, Lauchlan. I'm just trying to understand why he's changed; why he doesn't seem so interested in taking his place in the business.”

“Mr. Martland, I've known Maggie Skene since she was a toddler. If Maggie is exercising a magnetic influence on Trevor, it will be the best thing that ever happened to him. She's intelligent and spirited and cares about other people. If there is a serious connection between them, you should be thanking your lucky stars that he's picked such a fine girl.”

Martland's eyebrows shot up. “Has it gone that far, then? I didn't know. Has she confided something to you?”

Charles finally caught sight of the red flag that had been waving just outside the range of his vision. “If she had confided something to me, I would be a poor friend if I shared that confidence with someone else behind her back. I'm not sure that I should have told you even the things I have.”

Martland gave him a dark look.

“Look, Mr. Martland, it's none of my business I know, but at a certain point, children will make their own way, mistakes and all. How will Trevor learn to be the man you hope he will be if he isn't allowed to learn from the decisions that he alone makes?”

“Have you got children, Lauchlan? If not, stay out of it.”

“No. I don't have children. But I am a son and I know that you can lose your son by trying to keep your hands on the reins too long.” Charles pushed his hair off his forehead. “Look here, before you go I should go through the box in case there's anything we can't use that could go to another agency.”

Ordinarily he would take pretty much anything for the clothing depot, but he wanted an excuse to change the subject. They went over to the box and Charles started sifting through it. Most of the items were men's shirts, jackets, and trousers. All of good quality, with only slight signs of wear.

“Yes. These are very good. We're always short on clothing for men.” He fingered a jacket. “Are you sure you want to give this away? It looks almost new.”

Martland put a hand on the jacket. “That's Trevor's.” He snorted and took it from Charles. “Only a few years old.” He turned it over in his hands. Charles watched him as he continued to hold it — running his hand down the fabric of the front and turning the cuffs over. Martland's irritation turned into to a kind of blankness.

“Well,” Charles said, “From my observation Trevor has no lack of clothing.” He heard his own voice and didn't like the tone of it.

Martland handed the jacket back to Charles. “Yes, that's the problem,” he said. “Throwing away perfectly good things; I know we have money enough for new, but I wish he didn't need to pay attention to every little change of fashion.”

Martland patted the pockets of his vest, pulled out his watch and looked at it. “I have to get back to the office, Lauchlan.” He stuck out his hand. “Kind of you to talk to me about this— and don't mind me.” He favoured Charles with a smile that did not extend to his eyes. “I'm always a little direct in what I say.” He nodded a farewell, turned on his heel, and was gone without waiting for Charles to say goodbye.

T
hrough
the conversation with Martland had left a bitter taste in his mouth, Charles had no time to brood over it. The board meeting was starting in half an hour and he still had much to do. He had decided to put the beam replacement first on the agenda since he felt it would be smooth sailing. In the sanctuary, Charles could hear Peter busily cleaning up around the temporary supports under the gallery. The old beam was still in the narthex awaiting removal and its splintered crack would be more persuasive than any words he could say.

The meeting was underway before he had quite finished his preparations but, as he had supposed, the approval for the new beam was quickly given. After a few more routine matters, they broke for tea and brought their cups and biscuits back to the table. Charles swallowed hard as the men around the table rustled their agenda papers and the chairman nodded for him to begin the next item, enigmatically titled, “New Chancel.”

“Right. I'm going to lead on this one. Let's turn to item number three.” He cleared his throat. “Some of you have, perhaps, heard rumours about the man who has been arrested for Mr. Asseltine's murder and was recently granted bail. His name is Peter McEvoy. You just met him in the sanctuary.” A sharp intake of breath was heard around the table. “It happens that he is an old friend of mine. I have agreed under court order to stand surety for him, to keep an eye on him, and make sure that he appears as scheduled for his trial. This undertaking affects us all here in the church.”

The chairman's mouth dropped open and he pushed himself back in his chair.

Charles held up his hands for silence and as he pressed gently against the air the men settled once more.

“I would like to have prepared you more for what I am about to say. I would have liked to give you time to pray and reflect. But life does not always offer us time. The events of the last several days have been tumultuous and confusing. If you can, please let me get through this whole story before you ask questions. I will say that what I am going to ask you will test your faith — or, at the very least, your faith in me. I can only ask you to suspend your judgement and hear me out.” He stood up and took another deep breath.

“I've preached sermons on
agape
, that patient, humble, and selfless love we ought to extend to our fellows, no matter how unworthy they might seem to be in the eyes of the world. I should have been listening myself, because like all the things that Jesus asks of us, this is so much harder to do than it is to prescribe from the pulpit. Peter McEvoy is about as needful of that kind of love from us as any man can be.” Charles went on to describe his relationship with Peter, Peter's dilemma, his status as an accused murderer, and his self-confessed addiction to alcohol. His hearers received this story with growing alarm. More than once Charles had to hold up his hand and beg again for silence. He had deliberately said as little as possible to the chairman of the board, James Arbuthnot, so that all the members with the exception of Dr. Skene would hear what he had to say at the same time without having any opportunity to form an opinion beforehand. The risk of this strategy was at this moment very clear; the whole thing was teetering on the edge of a very deep precipice.

“Whatever else Peter McEvoy is, he is also a gifted designer and craftsman in wood. I want you to look at the drawing he has made for us on the trestle table over there. No — please — just come with me and look at it while I explain how it came about.” With considerable wariness of expression and some murmuring, the men left the board table and walked over to the trestle table ten feet away. Charles had covered the drawing with his black silk Geneva gown, which he now removed carefully and set aside. At first, there was no discernible reaction from the men as they clustered around the drawing. The new drawing was really a thing of beauty. Charles marvelled again at the absolute rightness of all the proportions. He explained how the design would work; how well it suited their needs; how it expressed in its simple forcefulness what the mission of the church was about. Then he talked about how it would be built and what economies might be available in choosing the materials and how they might be able to borrow the necessary tools. Arbuthnot began asking questions about the technical aspects and a few others chimed in. Some clearly didn't know what to make of it but most of the men whose opinions tended to sway the others appeared at least intrigued at the design. For the first time, Charles began to hope.

“This is what I am asking of you today. Peter needs a safe place to stay until his trial; a place where I can keep an eye on him. He also needs, above everything, to have something to focus his energies on, to keep him busy. I'm asking you to allow him to live here in the church — in the janitor's room with me — and I'm asking you to approve our borrowing the money to build the new chancel and choir loft over the course of the next few months. He has asked for no pay for this work, which I can attest he is more than capable of performing. He asks only for his board here at the church.” Charles paused and drew a sheet of paper out from underneath the drawing. “We have prepared a preliminary budget for the work, the details to be finalized as we negotiate prices with the lumber yards and the hardware suppliers. I think you can well appreciate the money we will be saving on labour and the fact that, at the end, we will have the most beautiful and distinctive sanctuary in the city.” He laid the sheet of paper on top of the drawing and the men crowded around it.

“I suggest we take this back to the board table.” It was Arbuthnot's voice, firm, but not censorious. He picked up the budget sheet and walked with it back to the table. The others followed him. They shuffled into their seats again and there was an awkward pause as the sheet was passed around from group to group. Charles's heart sank.
It's too much for them; they're thinking only of the things that can go wrong. It's too much of a risk.

Arbuthnot finally broke the silence. “Mr. Lauchlan, I'm just a practical man of business and I'm trying to come to grips with what you've just told us. It's a lot to take in.” He paused and smoothed the table top in front of him with his hands. “To me, it comes down to the man himself. Are you sure you're seeing him clearly? Or is friendship clouding your judgement? Because I will tell you frankly that, if that man did what he's accused of, I will not have him in such close proximity to my wife and children here.” There were nods and low sounds of assent around the table.

Charles knew now was the moment. “I don't blame you for having doubts. And I'll tell you freely that I've had doubts myself during the course of the last few days. You're absolutely right. All this boils down to one ultimate concern. What kind of a man is Peter McEvoy? Will he prove to be the kind of man who fulfills our worst fears? Is he the kind of man who is capable of violent, senseless behaviour? The kind of man who will take advantage of us, take our money, and perhaps run away and leave undone the job we have entrusted to him?” He got up from his chair and leaned forward on the table, so that everyone at the table could both see him and hear him. He could feel Dr. Skene willing him onward, nodding slightly.

“Or will he turn out be the man I believe him to be. A fundamentally good person; albeit one who has lost his way. I believe that what happened to Joseph Asseltine was a tragic accident to which Peter was an unlucky accessory, and I believe that this will be proved in court. I won't absolve him of all blame for the situation in which he found himself. Peter would be the first to tell you that he is the author of his own misfortune to a large extent.”

“See here Lauchlan, that's all very well.” It was Harman Fraser, who was never very friendly to Charles's proposals. “Guilty or not, I can see that you need to do your duty by him as his friend. But why drag the church into it? Why put him up here, of all places? And because he needs to keep busy, we rush out and borrow money to install a new chancel in the sanctuary? When we just decided in the spring to delay for at least a year?”

Murdo McGillivray chimed in. “And don't you think the bank will want to know what kind of a risk we're taking in hiring him to do the work? And what about that drawing? It doesn't look like anything I've ever seen in any other church. We're risking being made laughing stocks.”

This opened the floodgates. From all around the table questions came about Peter, about his drinking, about his bail conditions, about the strange, stark beauty of his drawing, about the money for construction, about Charles's judgement, about his highhandedness and lack of consultation. Charles fielded the questions calmly, keeping his temper, and Dr. Skene spoke eloquently in support of the plan, yet they both could feel the sickening drag of the undertow as the momentum shifted to the negative.

“We hear you say, ‘I believe he is innocent; I believe he will complete the work.'” It was Fraser again. “What assurance do we have to back up your opinions? You're asking us to take an awful chance, aren't you?”

“Yes, it's an awful chance, as you say. I'm afraid there is nothing to fall back on if I'm wrong. I have no collateral to offer you except myself.” Charles played the last desperate card. “If this ends badly, if Peter is found guilty, or if he proves unworthy of the trust we place in him — in any way — or if his actions prove harmful to what we have all built up here together, you will have my resignation on your table.”

“Very noble of you, Lauchlan,” said Fraser. “But in that case the damage will already have been done. I hardly think throwing yourself on the funeral pyre will help matters at that juncture.”

“Um, excuse me. I — I think we should go ahead.” The voice was a little tremulous. Every head turned to see who had spoken.

“What? What was that, Mr. McAlistair?” Arbuthnot said. He was addressing Hamish McAlistair, the Latin teacher at the Central High School, who hardly ever spoke at meetings.

“I said, ‘I think we should go ahead'.” McAlistair blushed to the roots of his hair. “I've heard Mr. Lauchlan's assessment and I'm persuaded by it. Mr. McEvoy is asking us for a place to stay and for a chance to do some useful work. Mr. Lauchlan has vouched for him and will be here to supervise him. And, well, I for one don't see what we really have to lose by giving McEvoy this chance to make a turning in his life.”

“And I suppose you think that is what Christ would have us do, McAlistair?”

“Well, um, I was thinking more about Marcus Aurelius, but I take your point Mr. Arbuthnot.”

Charles held his breath. After McAlistair had spoken, several of the other quieter members rallied around him. In the end, the matter was decided by three prudently worded motions, with enough escape hatches provided to permit that matters be put to a vote. The first passed fairly handily; the last two squeaked into the affirmative column by a margin of one vote — that vote being cast by the chairman. It all amounted to an agreement to proceed to final drawings and specifications with the building to commence only on final approval. Charles felt like a wrung-out sponge but it was enough, enough to keep Peter at the church for a while, at least. Peter's own attentiveness and ability would have to carry it the rest of the way.

After the others had left, Charles shared a spartan supper with Peter in the church kitchen, talking about the details from the board meeting. Peter was unsurprised at the success of their plan. He seemed to have taken it for granted that once the design was explained to the board members in all its details, reasonable men would have no option but to approve it. Charles was beginning to appreciate the difficulty Peter had with social and business relations — he was a true innocent
. Yes, that's right
. When he had said in the board meeting that he believed Peter to be innocent of the murder, he had really meant it. And he had no idea why he was so convinced of this, nor of when this conviction had come upon him. They washed the dishes together in companionable silence and then Peter went back to his makeshift desk.

Charles had promised Maggie to help her with her German that evening, so he settled his hat on his head and set off toward the Skene house. He'd already decided to treat himself to a streetcar ride home. He took a shortcut through the rail yards — which was illegal, but all the men knew him by now and he tried not to overuse this privilege. He lifted his legs over one set of tracks after the other, and felt the steel giving back some of the heat of the day.

The board meeting had pushed all thoughts of the conversation with Frank Martland out of his mind but now they came creeping back. The better acquainted he became with the Martlands, the more questions he seemed to trip over. He wished that the sweetness of his visit with Agnes had not been wiped out by the grilling Martland put him through about Trevor — and Maggie. How incredible that Martland would think his son too good for Maggie. The thought of it set his teeth on edge again. He had reached the gates of the rail yard and continued on through the streets crowded with tiny houses, some only a few years old but already showing the effects of their hasty erection and shoddy materials.

He had defended Maggie eloquently, if he did say so himself. He stopped dead in the middle of Alexander Avenue. Maggie and Trevor. He could see them in his mind's eye. Maggie in an elegant travelling dress; Trevor, handsome, with a red rose in his lapel, looking at her with a shy smile. He puts his arm, in a proprietary way, around her waist. They wave from the back of the train. Maggie throws something at Charles and laughs happily. Rice. Rice caught in folds of her dress and in the brim of her hat, the hat made especially for her by Varennes of Montreal. The train whistle blows insistently.

The train, at least, was real. It was the 7:19, bound for Regina, Calgary, and points west, pulling out of the station a few blocks behind him.