Thumb on a Diamond (2 page)

“A mountain lion? It's close,” he added, puffing more quickly on his pipe. He sent round balls of smoke into the air like miniature smoke signals.

“It's an African lion,” I said. “She's not in her natural habitat. She's locked in the tennis court and she's hungry.”

“You have a lion in this village?” asked Mr. Entwhistle. He said it calmly, but he did take a small step back toward his rowboat.

“Yes,” said Susan. “Muriel was left here when she was a cub. She's our pet now. She's tame.”

“Imagine that,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I am in a Canadian west coast village with a tame lion. Ah, life is strange. This morning I stared death in the eye,” he said, like a stage actor overplaying his part, “and now I share this fine little village with an African lion. We are both poor souls far from home.”

“Here's my house,” I said, stopping on the wooden walkway. “Come on in.”

2
WELCOME

DAD WAS SITTING AT THE
kitchen table, talking on the phone. There weren't many phones in the village. The mountains blocked the satellites some of the time.

Dad glanced up and stared in surprise as Mr. Entwhistle stepped through the door behind us. Then he hung up, fast.

My dad is bald and always wears a tie. He owns the only three ties in the village. He's the only person who has ever worn a tie, except for the time that the queen's yacht, Britannia, passed by our coast a few years ago with the queen herself on board. She'd taken a trip up to the Queen Charlotte Islands to see the totem poles and was heading down to Vancouver. We all hopped on fishing boats and headed out to greet her, riding the waves and standing on the decks of our convoy.

Dad had loaned the two ties he wasn't wearing to the mayor and the mayor's wife. We all waved and Britannia tooted out a response. I don't think the queen, if she was watching, noticed the ties. It was a rainy day and everyone's parkas were zipped.

“Pardon my intrusion,” said Mr. Entwhistle, removing his Sherlock Holmes hat and holding it in one hand. “Your son and his lovely friend invited me to your charming home, sir, so that I might ask permission to use your phone. It seems that my boat has sunk to the bottom of the deep blue sea. I was lucky enough to escape in my dinghy and to find safe haven in your fine community.”

“In this fog?” asked Dad as he glanced outside.

“Yes. Indeed. It was the fog that caused me to sink. I hit some rocks.”

“You're lucky to be alive,” said Dad. “Sure. Use the phone. The Coast Guard emergency number is on the wall above the kitchen counter.”

Mr. Entwhistle made his call.

Our kitchen is part of the living-room. The only other rooms in our house are the two small bedrooms and the bathroom. The bedroom walls don't go all the way to the ceiling so the heat can circulate. The bathroom is the only room that's completely private.

Dad, Susan and I stepped outside so Mr. Entwhistle could talk in private.

“They just won't listen,” said Dad.

“Who won't listen to what?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew what he was talking about.

Dad really wanted to take a bunch of kids to Vancouver so we could see cars and elevators and tall buildings. The school board wouldn't pay for the field trip. It was too expensive.

I know some schools ask students to sell chocolate bars so they can raise money for school trips, but there are only 138 people in our whole village. We'd be awfully fat if we had to eat enough chocolate to pay for trips and library books and computers.

“I just can't convince the school board that it is important for children to see the broader world,” said Dad.

Susan sighed. She had never been to any city larger than Prince Rupert. I had been to Vancouver lots of times and even to Toronto and Seattle, but I hadn't been anywhere for a couple of years.

The door opened and Mr. Entwhistle peeked out at us.

“You didn't have to leave,” he said. “It is your house.”

We all went back inside. I figured we had about five minutes before friends started to knock on the door, wondering about the stranger.

“The Coast Guard will search when the fog lifts,” said Mr. Entwhistle, shaking his head sadly. He asked if he could sit and then did, heavily. “I think they are far more interested in making sure that no wreckage gets into the shipping lanes.”

“Your boat can't be far,” said Dad. “We'll find it and salvage what we can. I'm surprised you made it here. There isn't another shack or village for thirty kilometers up or down the coast. It's a miracle.”

But Mr. Entwhistle wasn't really listening. He was staring at one of the cedar walls. He suddenly stood up, walked to the wall, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather case. He opened the case, carefully took out some glasses and set them on his nose. He stared at a large painting of mountains on a misty morning. He inspected every inch of it before glancing down at the corner to see the signature.

“This painting,” he said. “Is it an original Annie Pritchard?”

“Yes,” said Dad.

“You bought it?”

“Annie gave it to me for Christmas one year.”

“Annie Pritchard gave you one of her paintings?” Mr. Entwhistle asked, making it sound like the queen had given us her crown jewels.

“Yes.”

Mr. Entwhistle removed his glasses, put them away and sat back down on the couch, still staring at the painting.

“It's beautiful,” he said. “One of her best. I know she maintains a cottage somewhere on this coast but she could live anywhere. She's one of the most famous painters in the world. I went to an exhibit of her work at the Tate Gallery in London.”

Before Dad could tell Mr. Entwhistle that Annie lived next door, Charlie Semanov, our mayor when we needed one (which wasn't often), opened the door and poked his head inside. He spotted Mr. Entwhistle and then pulled his head back outside and closed the door.

I glanced out the window. People were standing in front of our house, staring at the door. Village houses are built close to the sidewalk. We walk in front of them so much that it is considered impolite to stare into anyone's windows. Big Charlie was talking excitedly.

The fog was lifting. I could even see the bottom slopes of mountains across the basin. Another crowd down by the dock was looking at Mr. Entwhistle's rowboat. I could see people shielding their eyes from the glare of the thin fog as they searched the bay for a larger boat that didn't belong to anyone in the village.

Our door opened again and Big Charlie held it open so people could tramp inside.

“This is Mr. Gerald Entwhistle,” said Dad, standing up. “His boat sank.”

“Are you a fisherman?” asked Big Charlie Semanov in his booming voice.

Big Charlie was a man who liked to hug people. He hugged people on their birthdays and even for catching a big fish. I knew that he wanted to rush over and hug this man for having lost his boat because to a fisherman, losing a boat is almost as bad as losing a family member. But he also needed to find out if this stranger had been trying to catch the fish along our shore. Big Charlie and some of the other fishermen seemed to think that anyone fishing in our bay was like a cattle rustler, even though our fish weren't branded.

“No,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I am not a fisherman. I'm an Englishman.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Dad asked Mr. Entwhistle.

“Yes. Please,” said Mr. Entwhistle, turning his head to nod.

It was a shame that Mr. Entwhistle turned his head. He didn't see Big Charlie race across the room, his arms outstretched like a football player. He didn't see Big Charlie until it was impossible not to see Big Charlie since Mr. Entwhistle's entire body was surrounded by nothing but Big Charlie.

Big Charlie hugged him. I heard Mr. Entwhistle mumble something and noticed that his shoes weren't touching the ground.

Big Charlie let go. Then he slapped Mr. Entwhistle on the back so hard that the poor man almost fell over.

“What was her name?” asked Big Charlie.

“My…boat?” asked Mr. Entwhistle, trying to catch his breath.

“Yes.”

“Bernice,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

“Ah,” said Big Charlie, nodding. “Named after your mother, your wife, or your daughter?”

“A beaver,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “An imaginary beaver.”

“Coffee's ready,” said Dad, setting a cup on our table as Big Charlie scratched his head. Big Charlie had never heard of a boat named for an imaginary anything and didn't quite know what to say.

When Mr. Entwhistle had finished his coffee, Big Charlie invited him to step outside and take a look at the village. The crowd behind Big Charlie Semanov was beginning to break up. I could hear the diesel engines of fishing boats fire up. Horns sounded, with special beeps telling crew members to get down to the dock. The fishing boats would be leaving soon.

Susan and I sauntered along behind Big Charlie and Mr. Entwhistle as they retraced our steps. Annie Pritchard stood on the dock, leaning on her cane and staring out at the mountains across the sound. Big Charlie slapped Mr. Entwhistle on the back again and announced that he had to go and check his boat. Mr. Entwhistle walked up close to Annie.

“Are you watching the boats leave?” asked Mr. Entwhistle. “Do you have a husband or a son or daughter on one of them?”

“I have no relatives on any of those boats,” said Annie calmly. “But I do have many friends. Today I am here just to stare at the mountains as they emerge from the fog. It is a sight I have seen thousands of times but love more every day. I can tell you which trees and rocks and streams will be revealed next, as the fog thins. The uncovering still delights me. By the way, I'm Annie. You are that fellow whose boat sank, right?”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “Gerald Entwhistle.”

Mr. Entwhistle asked Annie the name of one of the craggy, twisted peaks across the bay.

“That's Roger's Mount,” Annie answered. “It was named after my grandfather because he was the first person to climb it. He didn't climb it for any particular reason. He just hated not knowing what was on the other side.”

“Do you ever wonder what's on the other side?”

Annie laughed. “No. I like to make up what might be on the other side. I don't need facts. Facts just get in the way.”

Mr. Entwhistle asked Annie the names of three waterfalls, two valleys between peaks and a huge rock perched on the side of Roger's Mount. He asked about a small, blue-ice glacier. Annie knew the names of everything and at least three stories about each.

“Are there any beaver around here?” asked Mr. Entwhistle.

“Oh, my, yes,” said Annie, laughing. “They're in all the bogs around the bay. When the snow melts, it runs down the cliffs and settles into craters along the shore. We get our water from a pond halfway up the mountain behind us. We have to stop beaver from building in the pond about once a month. Can't have them living in our drinking water, you know.”

“So, a person could see plenty of beaver just by riding around the bay in a rowboat?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Mr. Entwhistle thanked her, tipped his hat, backed away from the dock and slowly walked through the village, humming.

After about an hour he came back to the dock and asked Big Charlie Semanov if the Addison house, which was empty, was for sale.

“There's not much room in our village,” said Big Charlie, barely paying attention as he inspected a fishing net hung to dry. “We've got a mountain behind us and the ocean in front. There's only room for so many buildings. But most of the young people don't stay. They go to Prince Rupert and work there. Nobody can sell you that empty house because there aren't any records down in Victoria to say who owns which piece of our beach. Our village is listed as a company and the company owns the village. It's easier that way.”

Big Charlie turned and inspected Mr. Entwhistle with the same eye he used when he was looking for flaws in his nets.

“Tell you what,” he said at last. “Fix the Addison house and you can stay as long as you want. You can't buy it but you can't sell it when you leave, either. Any improvements you make will have to stay with the house. Fair?”

“Fair.”

“Tell me, though. This morning you were anxious to get away from here as fast as you could. Now you want to buy a house and stay. You might want to wait another hour or two. Maybe you'll change your mind again,” said Big Charlie with a chuckle.

“I'll tell you why I want to stay,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I'm not homesick here. It surprises me, really. I've been homesick for years. I always thought that I was homesick for my country but I realized, talking to that woman earlier, that I have been homesick for the way the people in my part of England feel about the countryside around them.”

Mr. Entwhistle told Charlie that he had been raised in the Lake District of England, a place where every hill and every pond and grove of trees has a name and has had a name for hundreds of years. Mr. Entwhistle liked Canada, except for the fact that there are so many mountains that hills are rarely named, and so many lakes and rivers that creeks and ponds don't seem to count.

“Even mountains,” he said, “may have names on official maps stored in an Ottawa basement, but they are just part of the scenery to people who stare at them every day. I like your village. Every piece of scenery has a name and a history. It reminds me of home.”

So, Mr. Entwhistle moved into the Addison house and discovered that the woman at the dock was an artist even more famous than him.

I promised you a baseball story, but I wanted you to have some sense of our village first. You may have noticed something. If you didn't, I'll make it clear. There is no grass in New Auckland. There is no field in New Auckland. Our tiny group of buildings hugs the sandy shore between a tall, rocky mountain and the deep, salty ocean.