Half an hour passes. When the door opens for traffic in and out, he hears Prudhomme arguing the Wildlife Act, Selwyn talking about Phantom Orchids. He hears Kroop ask a question, so at least he’s listening. Maybe he’s changed, mellowed with age, like fine whisky. The analogy isn’t apt: Kroop is the worst kind of non-drinker, someone who never did, a teeto-taller all his life.
Finally, after another twenty minutes, Arthur surrenders to curiosity, slipping in as the door opens to release a few bored spectators. He perches painfully in the last row. Wilbur Kroop looks well at seventy-three, a great bald walnut-shaped head, eyes that seem to emit black light as they roam about the room, finally pausing at Arthur, squinting, moving on. Selwyn is still on his feet, the going rough.
“No, no, Mr. Loo.” A squeaky unnatural voice from a heavy person, accented by the clacking sound of poorly fitted false teeth. “Surely it’s not your position that the courts should stand idly by while a gang of squatters-who seem to have no jobs to work at or classes to attend-occupy someone’s titled property, and-if I rightly read the affidavits of the plaintiff corporation-roast hot dogs and smoke cannabis and engage in naked displays for the titillation of television news audiences.”
Arthur dismisses the fancy of the mellowed judge.
“Are you asking me a question, Chief Justice?”
Kroop glowers at impudent Selwyn. “What I seek to know, Mr. Loo, is how you might feel if a legion of trespassers set up camp in your backyard.”
“I live in an apartment.”
“Come, come, I think you have my point. The plaintiff bought this property for $8 million in anticipation of fair profit through development and harvesting of timber, and their plans have been held up for over three weeks by this sit-in business-yet they are willing to compromise. They will go in by barge. They will not touch the so-called Holy Tree. They will cordon off and protect that little meadow with the rare orchid species. And the chocolate lilies…”
He squeaks to a stop, ponders, detours: “What I can’t understand is why the police are doing nothing. This fellow in charge, Corporal Ivanchuk, seems a bit of a layabout, people are going up and down that tree like yoyos. And here’s another concern: Where’s the Attorney General in all this? Removing these protestors should be the state’s work. The company must not be burdened with these costs. Mr. Prudhomme, please give my regards to the Attorney General, and tell him he would oblige me by enforcing, with appropriate manpower, the rule of law on Garibaldi Island.”
Selwyn subsides into his chair, mouthing a sibilance that younger ears than Kroop’s might hear as “shit.” The Chief Justice glares at him, does another sweep of the room with his cold black eyes, again settling for a moment on Arthur. He works a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles over his nose, and scrutinizes him out once more, as if to be sure, then returns to Prudhomme.
“You have your restraining order. All these people, including the four who are up that tree, will leave immediately. Those who refuse are to be arrested and brought before me on charges of criminal contempt. This entire farce has to be brought to an end. We cannot have anarchy in the forests.”
Arthur bolts from the room.
19
Twilight nears as Syd-Air drops Arthur at the wharf of the General Store in Hopeless Bay. He left Lotis on the mainland with the Toyota, so he must somehow cadge a ride to the Gap. Margaret now has no choice but to come down voluntarily or face jail. Let the three Greenpeacers defy Kroop if they wish, let them take the brunt of his wrath, but she should not, she has served honourably.
The store’s only customer is Winnie Gillicuddy, hectoring Abraham Makepeace with questions and complaint. “How old are these carrots, they feel like rubber.” “Where in heaven’s name is the Cream of Wheat?” Arthur reaches up to retrieve it for her. “Thank you, young man.” She doesn’t recognize Arthur in his suit, with briefcase.
“Can’t lend you my car, it’s broke,” Makepeace says. “I’ll call this new taxi service for you.” A flyer on the bulletin board: Tour the island in one of our vintage vehicles, $7.50 to anywhere. He dials a cellphone number. “They’re on the way.”
While Arthur paces and frets, Winnie cashes her pension cheque and Makepeace totes up her month’s bill. “Put the rest on Scratch and Win,” she says, “and don’t forget my pint.”
Makepeace tells Arthur, “She always has a few drops on pension day.”
“Don’t you talk about me as if I’m not here.”
“You better not get pie-eyed again, Winnie.”
“Thank you for minding my business.”
A few minutes later, Bob Stonewell is at the door, dark aviator glasses, a half-smoked rollie stowed over his ear, a cellphone hooked to his belt. “Who wants a taxi here?”
“I’m your fare, Stoney, and I’m in a hurry.”
A blank look is quickly replaced by an overabundant smile, hinting Stoney was hoping not to bump into him. “Arthur Beauchamp, the town tonsil, just the man I wanted to see. Here, let me get that briefcase.”
Stoney wrestles it from him. Arthur steps out and sees his Fargo, a worn chesterfield in the back. Stoney slips the joint from behind his ear and lights it, seeking the courage to contend, once again, with the rightful owner and occasional user of this vehicle.
Arthur considers climbing onto the chesterfield, stretching out, resting his throbbing rear. But he gets in front, and Stoney pulls away, stubbing the joint, releasing a cloud of smoke from his lungs, and a gust of words. “Yeah, we finally got the old girl flushed out and back on her feet after that accidental drowning. This trip’s on me, Arthur, no obligation, never mind what it says on the sign.”
The sign, which obstructs the view through the windshield, advertises the $7.50-fare-to-anywhere and the cellphone number.
“I’m wondering as a favour in return if there’s any chance I can incorporate the Fargo into the fleet for a couple of days. Hey, man, you’ll be helping me in an economic crisis. I got two other machines that just suddenly broke down, so I’m kind of living on borrowed time until maybe Monday, Tuesday at the latest, when I’m getting delivery of a mint ’58 canary-yellow shark-finned Chrysler, I’m trading with Honk Gilmore for it, giving him back the backhoe, a machine that caused me more misery than made money. I’m going to finish the pond first though, I got a reputation.”
“I don’t care about the damn pond! The Fargo’s not important! Margaret’s important!” Stoney looks shaken at this outburst. “Tell me what’s happening at the Gap.”
“I heard a bunch of cops rolled in.”
“Have there been arrests?”
“Hey, man, relax, that fort is impregnable. Only one way to get up there, and that’s by a rope ladder they ain’t gonna let down.”
Arthur twigs to an unforeseen problem. If Margaret comes down that ladder, the police could take control of it, storm the redoubt, seize the tools and cable. She would never allow that to happen. He’s dismayed.
Early-evening shadows creep upon Stump Town as Arthur alights. Several reporters are sitting by their vans, grumbling, though Arthur isn’t sure why. He joins the two Als at the Save Gwendolyn information booth. Corporal Al looks depressed. Reverend Al remains plucky. The few dozen young folks remaining are dismantling their tents.
Corporal Al says, “The inspector’s hauling me in, Arthur, because of that judicial rebuke. He’s sent a crew to enforce the injunction, and I’m out of the picture.”
“They’re reading the injunction to our tree-sitters as we speak,” Reverend Al says.
“Well, why aren’t we there?”
“We’ve got orders to quarantine the area,” Corporal Al says. “No press even.”