I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (61 page)

“Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait.”

He laughs. And we carry on about this and that and everything, close and lively – comrades finally, the brothers we were meant to be.

S
toney tuned up the Fargo last week (he was under my watch throughout) and did a competent job of it. Like a housebound dog finding freedom, she is enjoying a long gallop up the Sea-to-Sky Highway. The Stawamus Chief looms forbiddingly through the mist; the Howe Sound fjords are grey and gloomy. I drive past the Squamish Nation's Totem Hall, a proud, imposing structure, and ease off on the gas as I enter the town. Its economy is now based as much on tourism as resources, a way station for hikers and skiers. A modern police station, modern provincial court, malls, and microbrewery.

It is Remembrance Day weekend, all too appropriate for my return to the Squamish Valley after these many years. I've been to the town proper for the odd preliminary hearing, but until now have never ventured north of it – my camping days are long over. A sense of guilt brings me here, after a month of dithering, to honour my pledge to Wentworth Chance to record sound bites for his revised
Thirst
, soon to be available in quality paperback.

Leaving town, I head up the narrow asphalt road that leads into the Cheakamus Reserve, Gabriel's childhood home, and along the east bank of the Squamish River. Where the reserve ends, the wealthy have taken root: large landholdings by the river with rambling showpiece homes. I stop at the driveway that once led to the hardscrabble farm of Buck and Thelma McLean, since pulled down, and now pastureland for several grazing horses. The driveway to Mulligan House has been paved. The little barn is still there, with a fresh coat of paint, and the A-frame and its once modern protrusion seem untouched by time. The river is timeless, though, and rolls past with a weary majesty.

On seeing me pull up, Wentworth races from the front door like a man chased by bees, pumps my hand and won't let go, towing me inside, chattering like a kingfisher. “Thank heavens, because I'm
on deadline. Got it down pretty well, but it needs an insider feel. Bulletin: the Holy Roman Church has finally confessed that some long-dead prelates were covering up for Mulligan, knew about his rape; they suppressed reports from a Pie Eleven teaching nun. The chickens will now be flocking home to roost.”

He pulls me through the ill-lit A-frame, its giant library still intact, into the study, which is not much altered either: the old turntable, the record collection, but now with baseboard heating replacing the airtight stove and indigenous art on walls and tabletops. A large rectangular shadow on the wall where Mulligan's portrait may once have hung. The same massive desk, even Mulligan's old Remington, but it's been shoved aside for a computer monitor and a printer. A great clutter of paperwork, reference works open, piles of transcripts.

“I published too early – the book desperately needed a completion. Not some boring retirement on a funky island but a hero's return, redemption. I'm calling the new final chapter ‘Never Say Die.' ” He fiddles with his computer, jumpy as an addict on speed. “My biography seminar was a bit of a bust – only one showed up. On the bright side, I'm shortlisted for the Drainie-Taylor Biography Prize; I guess you heard that. I'll set this up in a jiff, voice-to-computer. Darn, I'm a lousy host. There's coffee or … it's tea in the afternoon, isn't it? God, if anyone should know, it's me. Orange pekoe, of course, milk, no sugar, right? Give me a sec, I'll brew some up.”

“Hold. Stay.” I am behind the desk now, tapping on the keys of the Remington. They all seem to work. “What exactly did you think you were doing, Wentworth?” It isn't panic I see, but something close. “You were doing some research here earlier this year … sometime in March, wasn't it?”

“I, uh, yeah. Spent a couple of days. They opened it for me. Checking out the scene in person – that's the key to solid research, right?”

“The problem I have with that is your manuscript was already at the printers.” I pull a volume from the shelf – Bertrand Russell,
a 1950s first edition. “Not much of a task to scissor out a couple of blank end pages from a book like this. A lot more work excerpting appropriate quotes from Mulligan's texts. Sophocles, Camus.”

Wentworth sags. “Didn't pull any wool over your eyes, did I?” A laugh so tight it squeaks, then silence. Then, softly: “Arthur, you needed a push. I was forcing you to be a hero. Erasing the blot on your career.” His voice rising. “Damn it, your biography was incomplete. Your life was incomplete, your one great challenge unresolved. I had to goad you back to court.” He starts to weep. “You were a god to me.”

“Make us some tea, Wentworth, and let's get going.”

I was received warmly into Squamish by its historical society, whose president, Bianca Peters, helped bring me into contact with several knowledgeable locals, including Helmut Manzl, Lesley Keith, Susan Steen, Trevor Mills, and Paul Lalli. Chief Gibby Jacobs of the Squamish Nation had some words of wisdom for me, and Squamish pioneers Corinne Lonsdale and Spen Hinde generously offered aid.

Eric Andersen, an energetic Squamish historian, supplied a plethora of pertinent historic documents and photographs and led me to the sites of the old police station, prison, and courtroom, and finally to the Squamish Library, with its excellent archival collection, which includes a powerful recorded interview with Squamish elder Shirley Toman, movingly describing her years in a residential school.

Debbie Millward, chief librarian for the
Vancouver Sun
and
Province
newspapers, kindly set me up with a microfiche viewer. I spent several days at it, refreshing my memory of Vancouver in 1962 (a year during which, coincidentally, I was a
Sun
reporter, working my way through law school). George Bowering, Canada's first poet laureate and an old Vancouver hand, helped me tweak some of the Vancouver scenes from that year.

Long-time friend Louise Mandell, Q.C., one of Canada's leading Native rights lawyers, reviewed my next-to-final draft, and the novel has benefited from her wise counsel in important ways.