Footprints (6 page)

“State your name, for the record,” says Mayor Green.

“You know who I am, Tom,” the man protests. “Maggie here's your cousin.”

“Say your name anyway, please, Phil,” says Mayor Green.

The man rolls his eyes. “I'm Philip Nason, and my wife is Maggie, and my daughter is Sharon–”

Mayor Green interrupts. “I'm afraid we can't record your daughter's views without her being here in person.”

“But she's at work. That's why we have the child here. She'd be here if she could.”

“But she isn't,” says Councillor Graham firmly. “Therefore her opinion cannot be counted.”

Mr. Nason, with a glance at his wife and another roll of his eyes, starts, “We live at Sandy Point. We put a home there to retire to, for the peace and the view–”

“A mobile home –
a trailer
, I believe,” another of the councillors, nameplate Councillor Mary Holt, puts in. She wrinkles her nose as she says “trailer.”

Mr. Nason nods. “If the LNG plant is built, we'll lose everything we moved there for, the peace and the view, with the supertankers coming in, and the traffic on the new road they say will be built. Our daughter moved there to be beside us with the child–”

“In another mobile home,” Councillor Holt interjects.

“And she'd say the same, that–”

Mayor Green interrupts again. “I've already explained that we cannot hear your daughter's views second-hand. Have you anything more to say?”

Mr. Nason looks at his wife. She shrugs.

“Thank you, Mr. Nason,” says Mayor Green. “The council has noted your comments. Does anyone need Mr. Nason to clarify anything?” He looks right and left along the table.

Councillor Graham says, “Mr. Nason, you are concerned about the spoiling of your view, correct?”

Mr. Nason, who is now sitting, rises, nodding eagerly. “Yes, that's it exactly, sir.”

Councillor Graham goes on, “There are those who would say the presence of two mobile homes on Sandy Point is already a desecration of the view. Would you agree?”

Mr. Nason is about to answer, but Councillor Holt says, “I believe it's true that Eastern Oil has generously offered to relocate you and your daughter.”

Mr. Nason says, “But we don't want to live anywhere else. Our neighbour, Garrett Needle...” He nods at a man slumped, eyes closed, at the end of the row, on the other side of Lully. “He lives a short ways along the Point from me. He'll tell you the same.”

“He might if he was awake,” says Councillor Graham.

“He's been on night shift,” Mr. Nason explains.

“That's not all he's been on,” Councillor Holt murmurs.

The mayor frowns at his colleagues. “I'll have everyone present treated with respect and courtesy. An apology is in order.”

Councillor Holt mumbles apologies.

Mayor Green says, “I assume Mr. Needle's comments would be the same as yours, Mr. Nason, and we'll take them as
read, if you like. Thank you for addressing us.”

Mr. Nason makes his way out. The woman takes the child from Lully and follows him.

Mayor Green says, “Who is next?”

A woman in the front row stands. “Ms. Beverly Myles, representing the Back River branch of the Conservation Council.”

The mayor tells her, “The council has already received your report and taken note of it.”

“I'd like to read it, nevertheless, for the record.”

“Very well, but in abbreviated form, please.”

Beverly Myles reads a statement about the danger to the marine environment the increased traffic coming to the LNG plant would cause, especially vessels too large to safely navigate the waters off Sandy Point. She notes the impact of the plant on lobster fishing and on the whales who return to those waters every summer.

Councillor Holt yawns.

Mayor Green thanks Ms. Myles for her well-researched comments and says, “Next?”

Isora glances at Lully. He's busy taking notes.

Suddenly Garrett Needle lurches to his feet. He has a stubbled chin and matted grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. A smell like thawing spring earth wafts from him and fills the council chamber. His eyes are wide and staring. He seems surprised to find himself in a crowded room.

Mayor Green says, “Do you wish to address the meeting, Mr. Needle?”

Garrett Needle stares around the room, his head moving in quick jerks. Lully plucks at his sleeve. Garrett Needle lowers his head for Lully to whisper in his ear.

Garrett Needle nods, pulls himself upright, and says, “It's
wrong, what they'll do to the Point, building the...the...”

He looks down at Lully, who whispers, “LNG terminal.”

“That...what he says,” Garrett Needle tells the meeting. “It's not meant for the Point. It's not meant for anywhere.”

Mayor Green says, “Thank you, Mr. Needle. The council will take your comments into consideration.”

Councillor Holt is in whispered conversation with the man beside her.

“It's not just me saying it's wrong,” Garrett Needle goes on, his voice rising.

“We understand,” says Mayor Green. “Thank you.”

“It's not God's will that the sea be desecrated with... with...terminals, or with anything else.”

“Give me a break,” Councillor Graham mutters.

“The sea is for the fish and the whales, and for honest fishermen like I was for forty years, not for tankers and ports and pollution and...and...” Garrett Needle glances at Lully. “LNG terminals that will desecrate what God gave us.”

Mayor Green taps his gavel and says, “
Thank you
, Mr. Needle.”

“God will punish you, all of you, if you go along with this.”

Councillor Holt breaks off her conversation and says loudly, “Do we have to listen to this?”

“He will rain fire on you, fire and destruction. The Lord saith, ‘I will have revenge on those who sully My earth.'”

Lully stands and murmurs in Garrett Needle's ear. He guides him gently down to his seat.

Mayor Green says, “Thank you for your presentation, Mr. Needle, and for your help, Mr...er...” He looks at Lully, whose head stays bent over his notebook. “Mr...er...” Most of the people in the room are looking back at Lully. He doesn't look up. The mayor looks at his colleagues. Councillor Holt shrugs.

The mayor says, “Are there any more presentations?”

Garrett Needle, slumped in his seat, mutters, “You'll be sorry.”

After the meeting, outside the town office, Lully says, “Now you've seen politics in action, do you still want to pursue your protest?”

Isora says, “Yes, but I hope Anderson listens to us better than the councillors listened to the people who spoke tonight.”

Harper asks, “Should we talk to the council about the beach? It's in town limits, isn't it?”

“Who's your argument with?” says Lully.

“Mr. Anderson, I suppose.”

“Then that's who you talk to.”

“But Mr. Anderson isn't going to talk to us,” says Harper. “We can't just knock at the door of his cottage and say we've come about the beach.”

“You need to see him at his office. Make it like it's a business meeting.”

“So we just call Eastern Oil and say, can we see him?” says Isora.

“You won't get past his assistants, and anyway you'd sound too young.”

Isora gestures, arms out, palms up. “So what are we supposed to do?”

“I'll make an appointment for you, if you like. I'll say you're a deputation from Back River and you'd like to meet with him to discuss how you can work with Eastern Oil in order to benefit local amenities.”

Isora looks at the boys and back at Lully. “Would you? Thanks, Dex.”

“We'll give you a name, something like ‘The Concerned Citizens for the Amenities of Back River,'” says Lully. “But
there's a problem. Mr. Anderson's office is in Saint-Leonard.”

“We can get the bus.”

“But what about school?”

“What about it?” says Drumgold.

As the bus skirts the Saint-Leonard docks, Isora gazes across the harbour, her eyes searching for the head offices of Eastern Oil. Lully said they'd find it easily, because it was the tallest building in the city centre, and it was pink, with lots of blue-tinted windows.

“There it is,” she says.

Drumgold, beside her, and Harper, across the aisle, follow her pointing finger.

They leave the bus at the city centre. It's nine-thirty, after
the morning rush and before midmorning breaks send hundreds of workers out in search of coffee. They walk past the Atlantic Mall, where stores are preparing to open, and stop in front of the Eastern Oil building. Anderson's car, with the licence plate AA1, is parked in front of the wide glass doors. At Lully's suggestion, the boys are to wait outside until Isora waves them in, because the three of them entering at once might be seen as a threat. They're also afraid Anderson will recognize them from the encounter at the cottage. If he does, they will apologize for their action.

The boys hang back as Isora approaches the glass doors. The commissionaire standing just inside opens them with a little bow and says, “Good morning, miss.”

She nods and smiles. She hopes she looks businesslike, as Lully had suggested. She's wearing a white linen jacket over a light blue blouse and pleated navy skirt, and carries a briefcase, borrowed from Lully. It's empty. She makes her way across the lobby, which is high and light and airy, and seems to have more windows than walls, to where a receptionist sits behind a counter. She's talking into a headset and doesn't notice Isora's arrival. Isora waits while the receptionist talks about her plans for the evening. Isora drums her fingers on the counter. The receptionist looks up and lifts a finger, admonishing, teacher style.

When she finishes her conversation, she says, “Can I help you?”

Isora starts, “I have an appointment–”

Something buzzes beneath the counter and the receptionist holds up her finger again. She speaks into the headset. “Reception...Yes, Mr. Anderson.” She presses a switch and says, “Mr. Anderson will see you now.” She looks up.

Isora starts again. “We represent the Concerned Citizens
for the Amenities of Back River, and we have an appointment with Mr. Anderson.”

When Isora says “we,” the receptionist looks to each side of her, and Isora says, “My colleagues will be joining me in a moment.”

The receptionist says, “Your name?”

“Isora Lee.”

The receptionist speaks into her headset. “Marcia? I have an Isora Lee asking to see Mr. Anderson.” She tells Isora, “Mr. Anderson's executive assistant will be with you momentarily.”

Marcia, in a stunningly white blouse and a close-fitting black skirt falling just below her knees, appears through a door at the side of the lobby and says, “Ms. Lee?”

Isora turns and waves to Drumgold and Harper.

As they enter, the commissionaire stops them and demands, “State your business, please.”

Drumgold says, “What's our business got to do with you?”

Isora says quickly, “They're with me. They're the rest of the deputation.”

Marcia says, “Let them come.”

The commissionaire stares at Drumgold before stepping aside. Drumgold nods and smiles at him as he and Harper join Isora.

Marcia leads them through the door off the lobby and to the end of a hallway. She knocks at a door and a man's voice calls, “Come.”

Marcia says, “Mr. Turnbull will see you.”

Isora says, “But our appointment is with Mr. Anderson.”

“Mr. Anderson is away this morning.”

“The receptionist was talking to him just now,” Isora points out.

“And his car's outside,” Drumgold adds.

Marcia purses her lips and opens the door. Mr. Turnbull is sitting at a desk filled with papers, files, picture frames, and three telephones. He has thinning sandy hair and his face is jowly and florid. He wears a dark blue suit. He stands as Isora enters and says, “Well...who do we have here?” His eyes flicker over her. Drumgold and Harper appear and he sits abruptly with, “You didn't say you were bringing me a crèche, Marcia.”

“The party grew after I called.”

“You'd better bring my ten o'clock right up.”

“Don't forget you have the strategic planning executive at ten-thirty.”

“Lord, yes. Do you think Carter will budge on the pensions issue?”

Marcia shakes her head. “You'll have to do an end run round him or get him off the executive. Why don't you find him something else to busy himself with, like workplace equality?”

“Or positive working environment. Right.”

“Are we still on for lunch today?”

Mr. Turnbull grins. “That depends on where you're offering to take me.”

“We could try the bistro again.”

“Why don't you call and make a reservation?” He looks at Isora, sighs, and says, “Sorry. There's always so much to do first thing in the morning. I can only give you a few minutes, I'm afraid.”

Drumgold says, “Thank you, Mr. Turnbull, but we're here to see Mr. Anderson.”

Mr. Turnbull takes his eyes from Isora and looks at Drumgold. “May I ask what about?”

“It's personal.”

Mr. Turnbull leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and says, “I can assure you Mr. Anderson is not going
to see three students claiming to have personal business with him, and I can also assure you that no-one sees Mr. Anderson without first seeing me.”

“So...we've seen you,” says Drumgold. “Now we'll see Mr. Anderson.”

Marcia is hovering in the hallway. She walks away, talking quietly into a cellphone.

Mr. Turnbull starts, “My young friends–”

Drumgold interrupts. “We're not your young friends.”