In Search of Sam (5 page)

The Sheffields are nice people,
and I appreciate that they met with me and told me what Sam was like as a teenager. I'm grateful for the photograph too, of course, but as far as information that will help me find Sam's birth mother, they told me nothing — except the name of the town where he was left as a baby.

So it's back to Google.

“Farrow is a small unincorporated village located in the Nicola Valley region of British Columbia about 40 kilometres southeast of Merritt,”
I read aloud.
“It dates back to the gold rush of the 1860s, when prospectors trickling out of the Kootenays reportedly discovered gold in a stream there. This brought more gold seekers, and when deposits of silver, copper, and coal were also discovered, mining potential provided a basis for settlement. Farrow was named after the first mining company to stake a claim. The installation of a feeder line to the Kettle Valley Railway in nearby Brookmere provided a means of transporting the mined minerals to major centres and as a result the town grew
.

“During its boom years, the village boasted a drugstore, bank, church, and hotel, as well as an assortment of small stores and other businesses. Around 1950, Farrow's population peaked at nearly 2,000.

“In recent years the village has dwindled to a handful of residents, rendering it little more than a ghost town. Located less than a mile east of Highway 5, Farrow is accessible via a gravel road.”

I put down the phone, sag against my chair, and sigh. Sure, I could drive to Farrow. But what's the point if there's no one there to answer my questions?

I try to look on the bright side. It would be just as hard — maybe harder — to get answers if I were somewhere like Toronto. Then there would be too many people. Besides, it's not like Farrow is totally deserted. People still live there — a few, anyway. And the ones who have stayed are probably the diehards, the people who have a history with the place — the ones who might be able to answer my questions.

What have I got to lose?

I check out of the motel and inhale the sunny spring morning all the way to my toes before sliding into my little Honda.

“Let's go, Gloria,” I say as I turn the key in the ignition. “Gloria” is the name I've given the lady in my GPS. “I hope you've had your coffee, because we need to have a good day.” Then it dawns on me that I'm talking to my GPS just like Sam used to talk to his truck. At first it startles me, but then I think of it as another thread binding us together, and the idea pleases me.

I have the highway more or less to myself. It's the grey season, that bleak time of year after winter has released its stranglehold but before spring has had a chance to kick in, and though the fir trees are green and the sky is blue, everything else is grey. The rock embankments, the grass, the distant hills — everything. It's as if the world is coated with a dull film and Mother Nature needs to hose it away to make everything fresh and new.

Along the highway are
point of interest
signs indicating station stops along the old Kettle Valley Rail Line. These are names of characters from Shakespearean plays. Apparently one of the engineers had a passion for the Bard. According to the map, the turnoff for Farrow is just south of the marker for Juliet, so as soon as I pass it — even though I trust Gloria to tell me where to turn — I slow down and keep my eyes peeled for the exit.

“Keep left,” Gloria directs me and then adds, “In 450 metres, turn left.”

“Gotcha,” I say, spotting the left turn lane ahead. I check my rear-view mirror, put on my turn signal, and change lanes.

As I wait for the oncoming traffic to go by, I squint at the sign tacked to a post at the entrance to the road — a barn board someone has written on. The white paint is so cracked and faded, I can barely make out the letters. I'm pretty sure they spell “Farrow,” but maybe that's because it's what I expect to be there.

The article on the Internet said the road was gravel. It is — in some places anyway. In other parts the gravel is long gone, and what passes for a road is a collection of potholes and ruts that bounce me past an orchard of gnarled old fruit trees, a dilapidated barn that's leaning so much I could blow it over and a sign warning visitors not to drink the water.

Gloria seems to be weathering the bumpy ride better than I am because her voice is as steady and cheerful as ever when she announces, “In 100 metres, destination on right.” Then a few seconds later, “Destination on right.”

I slow to a crawl and peer out the passenger window. There's another sign, just as ancient as the one at the highway, but at least I can read this one.
Welcome to Farrow
.
I glance around. Okay, I'll bite. Where?

I move on, rolling slowly over the rutted road like a rowboat in a stormy sea. Straight ahead is a crossroad, and it's paved. Main Street, according to the signpost. I glance both ways. There's not a car in sight. Buildings line the sides of the road, but they're in pretty rough shape. Most are boarded up, and the ones that aren't look like they should be. The place is totally deserted. Or is it? Half a block away, I see a dog. It pads from my side of the road to the other and scratches at the door of a white storefront. Almost immediately, the door opens and an elderly man shuffles out. He pats the dog and the two make their way to a patch of sun farther down the sidewalk. The man lowers himself into a chair and starts to rock. The dog curls up beside him.

I ease my car onto Main Street, cover the half block, and park. As I step onto the street, I can feel the man watching me. When I cross the road, the dog lifts its head.

I smile. “Good morning.”

The man nods but says nothing. The dog starts to get up, but when the man strokes its back, it grumbles and settles down again.

The man shades his eyes and squints at me. “Lose your way?” he says. “We don't get many visitors here in Farrow. Do we, Ralphie?”

The dog's tail thumps the sidewalk.

“Actually, I'm looking for someone,” I tell him.

“You don't say. And who might that be? I know most everybody hereabouts. Down to Brookmere too.” He gestures to an overturned milk crate. “Set yourself down and tell me who you're lookin' for. Is it the Moyers? They get the most company. Mind you, none of 'em stays long. But then nobody does. Farrow's not exactly New York City, if you know what I mean.” He grins, and a gold tooth glints in the sunlight. “It used to be a sight more lively back in the old days, but when the mine shut down — and the railway too — there was nothing to keep folks here. Too bad, cuz it's a nice little town.”

I glance around skeptically.

“Oh, I know it don't look like much, but there's nothin' that a hammer and nails and a lick of paint couldn't fix. It ain't looks that make a place anyway; it's the people.”

I nod and sit on the milk crate. “So how many people live here?”

He screws up his face in thought. “On a good day, one hundred fifty maybe. If Bobby and Linda Matlock are bickering, Linda will be gone to stayin' with her sister in Kelowna, and then there just be one hundred forty-nine. Mostly it's older folk like me, cuz we don't need jobs. We got our pensions. The younger folk who live here — they stay cuz they can't afford anything else. Property's cheap. Some of them inherited land too. They all work somewhere else though — mostly Merritt.”

I nod again and point towards the rutted road. “When I was driving in, I saw a sign that said there was no drinking water. How do you manage?”

“We truck water in. Use that for drinking, and use stream and well water for most everything else. The water situation is fixable too, but Farrow folk can't afford to do anything, and the government jus' wants to forget we're here. The faster the town dies out, the happier they'll be. There ain't nothing we can do about it either. Nobody but us cares, and one hundred fifty people — one hundred forty-nine if Linda Matlock's off sulking — can't make much noise.”

As I think about what the man has said, I turn my face to the warm morning sun and open myself to my surroundings. Though I'm in downtown Farrow and the highway is less than a mile away, I feel swallowed up by nature. It's the same feeling I used to get sitting in the meadow at Sam's place.

The man interrupts my thoughts. “So who is it you've come to see?”

Suddenly I remember that I don't know the name of the old couple who took Sam in. Perhaps he took their last name. “Swan?” I answer hesitantly.

He scratches his head and frowns. “You don't know?”

“Not for sure. What I do know is that they were an older couple in the 1970s and they would have had a little boy living with them.”

The man's face clears. “Well, why didn't you say so? Here I was thinkin' you were lookin' for someone by that name now, and there just ain't no one. You're talkin' about old John and Hannah Swan. Good people, them two. Real good people. O' course, they're long dead now — buried in the local cemetery — but, yeah, they lived here their whole lives. And, if I recollect rightly, their niece's son lived with them for a few years. Then one day he was gone. Never did find out what happened there.”

Another dead end. I sigh and stand up. “Thanks,” I say.

“What'd you want with John and Hannah anyway?” he asks.

I shrug. “That little boy was my father. He was left on the Swans' doorstep when he was a baby. I was hoping that coming here might lead me to his birth mother.”

The man's eyebrows shoot up. “Well, I'll be jiggered. Just shows you what a body don't know. I was a lot younger then. The Swans woulda been my parents' age. I didn't know them real well except to say hello, but I know where they lived. I could give you directions, if you'd like.”

I know I'm grasping at straws, but that's all I've got. “I would like that very much,” I say.

I feel like I'm standing
in a minefield after the war. The remains of basements scar the scraggly field like ragged concrete craters and the ground is littered with tree stumps, shards of glass, rusty nails, and chunks of rotting wood. I carefully pick my way around the debris.

I shouldn't be walking here. The area is surrounded by a chain link fence that sports an intimidating padlock and a big
KEEP OUT
sign. But since one panel has been ripped away, offering an alternate entrance, I use it.

The old man said the area was earmarked for a housing development in the 1980s, but the project never got off the ground. After buying out the homeowners and tearing down the houses, the developer ran out of money, and the government claimed the property for unpaid taxes.

I don't even know which basement belonged to John and Hannah Swan. I wander from crater to crater, peering into them, hoping to see something that is Sam. But except for algae, puddles of stagnant water, and crushed drink cans, the basements are empty. I want to believe that when I come to the right foundation, it will speak to me.

But it doesn't, and the reality is disheartening.

I'm running out of leads. I have only one more place to check out: the cemetery. The old man gave me directions for that too, so I fish the paper I wrote them on from my pocket and head back to my car.

Still reeling from the condition of the abandoned housing development, I expect the cemetery to be neglected and overgrown, but it's actually picturesque. There is no church beside it nor any sort of administration building — not even a maintenance shed. All that sets it apart from its rustic surroundings is a freshly painted white picket fence. There is no sign to identify it, no gate either, just a modest opening wide enough to accommodate pallbearers and a coffin. There isn't even a walkway, just grass and graves. The cemetery has no pretensions. It is what it has always been, what it was intended to be: a final resting place for the people of Farrow.

The headstones are arranged in orderly rows, so I walk their length, looking for John and Hannah Swan. I find them in the fifth row. They are buried side by side. Their places are marked by simple stone crosses engraved with their names and pertinent dates. John died first; Hannah followed three months later. Though I write down the dates, I doubt they will be much help.

But there is something that might. The graves share a vase of flowers. They aren't fresh, but they aren't wilted either, which means they were placed here recently. The question is, by whom? If someone cares enough about these people to place flowers on their thirty-year-old graves, that person might also know about Sam. A spark of hope flares inside me.

And that's when I hear a loud whirring. I glance around. Across the cemetery, I see a young woman trimming the grass around the headstones. I didn't notice her before, so she must have arrived after me. I peer towards the road. Sure enough, there's an old, beat-up truck parked behind my car.

I jog across the graveyard.

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” I yell and wave my arms.

The young woman shuts off the weed whacker, lifts the safety muffs from her ears, and frowns in my direction.

“Can you help me?” I ask.

She shrugs. “What do you want?”

I point to the other end of the cemetery. “A couple of graves over there — John and Hannah Swan — have flowers. Do you know who put them there?”

She shakes her head. “I just do maintenance. I'm not the cemetery's social convener.”

Her unfriendly manner sets me back on my heels. I try again. “Have flowers been left there before?”

She pulls off her protective glasses and glares at me, and I realize she's probably not much older than I am. “Why do you want to know?”

“I'm looking for someone, and the person who put the flowers there might be able to help me.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Like I already said, I don't poke my nose into other people's business. A woman changes the flowers every Saturday afternoon. That's all I know.”

“Saturday afternoon. You're sure?”

“No, I made it up. Of course, I'm sure. I wouldn't have said so if I wasn't.” She puts her protective glasses and earmuffs back on. Our conversation is clearly over.

I thank her, but she doesn't hear. Saturday. That's only two days from now. If I can talk with that woman, I might learn something. I could go back to the motel in Merritt for a couple more nights, but I'd rather stay in Farrow and do more digging. I know there's no motel here, but maybe there's a bed and breakfast.

The girl has gone back to her weed whacking, so I wave my arms wildly to draw her attention again.

There's no mistaking the annoyance on her face as she once more shuts down her machine and removes her ear muffs. “What now?”

I refuse to let her surly attitude deter me. “Is there anywhere in town to rent a room?”

“The Apple Tree,” she offers impatiently. It's on Fourth Avenue off Main.” And without another word, she slips her earmuffs back on and resumes her work.

Thank God Farrow is small. I know where Main Street is, and if Fourth Avenue runs off it, I can find it. But I don't head there right away. Instead I drive around, checking out the various roads. Most of the shops on Main Street are run-down and closed, but the parts of town that still have a pulse are well cared for. Like Webb's River, there is more to Farrow than first meets the eye. It's layered, and you have to peel away those layers to get to its heart.

I find that heart at the crossroad of Second Avenue and another unnamed street that winds into the trees in one direction and into open fields in the other. According to the sign, it's the Farrow Community Hall. The building is old, but its wooden siding is painted a cheerful blue trimmed with white, and it immediately draws me in, so I stop for a closer look.

The front doors of the building are locked, but there's a glass-covered bulletin board and I read the notices on it. Everything from children's play groups and badminton clubs to yoga classes and line dancing are offered. The community hall is a busy place. But it's the poster advertising the upcoming Spring Bazaar that catches my eye. It's this Saturday. That means a gathering of the locals — people who might know something about Sam. It's exactly what I need, and since I'm going to stay to talk to the flower lady anyway, I can kill two birds with one stone.

Invigorated at the prospect of making a breakthrough, I practically skip around the outside of the building. Behind the hall is a playing field outfitted with bleachers, a backstop, and goal posts. On the far side is a swing set, slide, and sandbox, and beyond that a large fenced corral, though it looks like it's been a while since it's seen any activity.

The girl at the cemetery didn't give me an exact address, but I have no problem locating The Apple Tree. It's nestled between two larger homes on Fourth Avenue and has a lone apple tree in the front yard. A carved sign swinging from a post confirms it's the place, though I'm not sure if the sign is intended to identify the tree or the pretty little cottage cozied in behind it.

There is no driveway, so I park on the grassy verge and follow a path of stepping stones to the front door.

It opens even before I knock, and a round, elderly woman steps into the opening. She's wearing a bib apron over a house dress, and her white hair is tied back in a stubby ponytail. As she stands there, a swarm of wonderful cooking smells rushes past her, and my stomach, not having seen food for several hours, growls ferociously. I gasp and slap my hand over it.

“Come for lunch, have you?” the woman says, and though she doesn't crack a smile, her eyes are twinkling.

I grimace. “I'm sorry. I didn't know my stomach was going to do that. I'm so embarrassed.”

The woman chuckles. “Embarrassed because you're hungry? Fiddle-faddle. Save that for when your knickers fall around your ankles at a busy bus stop.”

We both grin.

“Thank you,” I say.

“So what can I do you for, young lady?”

“I was told I could find a room to rent for a few days.”

She smiles. “And so you can. I charge seventy-five dollars a night. Cash only. That includes breakfast and supper. You're on your own for lunch.” She glances at my stomach. “Except today. Come in.” She tugs me inside.

“I'm George Washington,” she says, leading me through to the kitchen. She pulls a chair out from the table and gestures for me to sit. “It's actually Georgina, but the only one who ever called me that was my grandmother. To everyone else, I've always been George.” She puts a hand to her heart. “I cannot tell a lie.” Then she doubles over with laughter.

I nod and smile. “I get it. That's why the apple tree.”

She dabs her eyes with the corner of her apron and allows herself a few more chuckles. “If you have a moniker like mine, you have to make the most of it. It should have been a cherry tree,” she shrugs, “but you have to work with what you've got. So who might you be?”

“Nobody so interesting as you,” I say. “Just plain Dani Lancaster.”

“Well, plain Dani Lancaster, what brings you to Farrow?”

I tell her. When I'm done, I say, “Did you know Sam?”

Her eyes get misty. “I did,” she nods. “He was such a sweet little boy. And with those black eyes and dark curly hair, he was a real cutie-pie too. It broke Hannah's heart to cut those curls. You know, I don't think I've ever seen a more thoughtful child — certainly never one as curious. Sam was always asking questions. Would the grass grow forever if you didn't cut it? How high is up? Where does the sun go at night? He needed to know everything. God bless me, but that boy could drive a body to distraction with all his questions. Not John and Hannah, though. They had the patience of Job. When Sam asked a question, they answered it. For them the sun rose and set on that child.”

“The Swans never told anyone the truth about how Sam came to live with them?”

George shakes her head. “Not a word. As far as anybody knew, Sam was their niece's son.”

“George,” I say, “were there any pregnant girls in Farrow at that time?”

She nods. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there was. One.”

I lean forward hopefully. “There was? Who?”

She stirs a pot on the stove. “Me.” Then she adds quickly, “But I'm not Sam's mother. I had a son when Sam was about a month old. And I kept him. Biggest mistake of my life. His name is Sebastien, and let me tell you, his name is the only good thing about him. He cleaned out my bank account two years ago, and I haven't seen him since. Here's hoping my luck holds.”