“Always eating, those two,” Werry commented. “Still, it means I generally know where to find them.”
Hasson, surprised at the degree of informality in Werry’s relationship with his men, seized on it as yet another indicator that he was alone, adrift, orphaned in an alien world. He was sinking luxuriously to new depths of gloom when he became aware that the car was again entering a residential area after having traversed only three or four downtown streets.
“How many people live in Tripletree?” he said, looking about him in some surprise.
“Twenty-six thousand at the last count.” Werry gave him a humorous glance. “We still call it a city, though. When the provinces all became autonomous and got their own governments they wanted to be as much like real honest-to-God countries as they could, so they didn’t issue charters for anything but cities. There aren’t any villages or towns in Alberta. Just cities. Hundreds of them.” He laughed and flicked up the peak of his cap, his bonhomie apparently fully restored.
“I see.” Hasson tried to digest the information. “And how many men in your department?”
“Actually on the street — four. That was half of my force you saw disappearing into Ronnie’s diner. The other half handles air traffic.”
“It doesn’t seem enough men.”
“I manage — and the job carries the official rank of reeve. If I transfer to a big city it’ll be as reeve.”
Hasson tried to visualise ways of running an effective police force with only four men, but his imagination balked at the task. He was on the point of asking further questions when Werry slowed the car down and turned into a short avenue of white- painted frame houses. The snow had not been cleared from it, as in the main thoroughfare, and it lined the street in fudge- coloured ridges. Hasson’s heart began to pound as he realized they had reached Werry’s home and he was dose to the meeting with his family. The car crunched to a halt about halfway along the avenue, outside a house which was partly hidden by several young fir trees.
“This is it,” Werry said cheerfully. “Rob, you’ll have your feet under the table in no time.”
Hasson tried to smile. Just remember, Dr Colebrook had told him once, a person who has had a nervous breakdown and dealt with it successfully is far better equipped to face life than somebody who has never been through the experience. The battle for self-control reveals inner strengths and reserves which otherwise would never have been discovered. Remembering the words, Hasson tried to draw comfort from them as, fearful of looking at the house in case he encountered strangers” eyes, he opened the car door and lowered his feet to the ground. He discovered that getting out a few minutes earlier at the hotel had helped to free his spine and lumbar muscles, and that he was able to stand up quite normally. Grateful for the respite, he insisted on taking two of his cases out of Werry’s hands and carrying them up the path to the house. Werry opened the outer and inner front doors with a flourish and ushered him into an atmosphere which smelt warmly of cooking, wax polish and camphor. A staircase ran up from the right side of the smallish hail, whose space was further encroached upon by an old-fashioned coatstand which was bulging with a variety of heavy garments, quilted flying suits and CG harnesses. Framed photographs and some highly amateurish watercolours hung on the walls, creating an air of domesticity which made Hasson feel more of an exile than ever because the home to which they belonged was not his home.
He was looking around him, smothered and tapped, when a door at the end of the hall was opened by a woman of about thirty. She was of medium height and fair haired, with a lean- hipped yet busty figure, and the exact kind of full-lipped, sulky good looks that Hasson had seen in a hundred old fiat-screen movies in cinema clubs. This he thought, was the saloon girl who enjoyed her work, the gangster’s girl friend, the chick on the back of the big bike, the roadside café waitress for whose favours truck drivers beat each other down with chair legs. She was dressed for the multiple part, in high-heeled shoes, toreador pants and a white T-shirt, Hasson was unable to meet her gaze.
“May,” Werry said, his voice filled with omnidirectional pride, “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Rob Haldane. He’s been travelling for days and he’s hungry. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
“That’s right.” Hasson agreed, accepting that there was no diplomatic way of making Werry see that his principal requirement was for solitude and rest. “How do you do?”
“Hello, Rob.” May took his extended hand, and on the instant of contact gave him a sudden smile, coy and direct at the same time, as though some unexpected human chemistry had been worked, taking her by surprise. The trick was so unsubtle that it embarrassed Hasson, and yet he immediately felt flattered.
Werry beamed at them both. “We ought to have a drink. What did you do with the bottle, Rob?”
“Here.” Hasson discovered he had slipped the bottle of whisky into his topcoat pocket. He was in the act of producing it when they were joined in the hail by a sharp-featured, thin-shouldered woman of about sixty. She was modishly dressed as though about to set off for a party, with an abundance of jewellery and hair tinted to match her coppertex suit.
“And this is Ginny Carpenter — May’s mother,” Werry said. “Ginny, meet Rob.”
“Pleased.” She looked up at Hasson through narrowed eyes and made no move to shake hands. “You’re the one who nearly killed hisself in a car.”
Hasson was taken aback. “That’s right.”
“Haven’t they got any good hospitals back in England?”
“Now, Ginny,” Werry put in placatingly. “Rob’s had all the hospital treatment he needs. He’s here to rest and build himself up.”
“He needs it,” Ginny said, still examining Hasson critically. “Have to see what a couple of months of good food will do for him.” Hasson tried to think of a swift retort which would let the woman know he had been accustomed to eating well all his life and expected to continue doing so when he left Canada, but the abrasiveness of her manner had thrown his thoughts into disarray. He stared down at her, dumb and helpless, as he strove to find the right words.
“Were you about to have a belt?” she said, forestalling him, glancing significantly at the bottle in his hand. “If you need it, go right ahead and have it — the smell doesn’t bother me.”
The phrases which Hasson so desperately needed to put together collided with those which were already swirling in his mind, rendering him even more incapable of speech than before. He turned to the others in the little group. Werry was nodding eagerly, expectantly, as though enjoying a bantering contest between life-long friends: May was still regarding him with wide- eyed, misty candour, projecting waves of startled tenderness. Hasson suppressed an urge to flee. “That’s my bottle, Ginny,” Werry said, after what seemed a long time. “Rob brought it in from the car for me.”
“Why didn’t he say so?” Ginny snapped as she went back into the room from which she had emerged. “I’m going to put the steaks under the grill. Come on, girl! You’re not very ambitious today, and there’s a load of extra work to do.” May obediently followed after her, giving Hasson a last liquid look as she closed the door.
“That Ginny’s a real character,” Werry said, chuckling. “Always the same — doesn’t care what she says to anybody. You should have seen your face when she made the crack about bending your elbow!”