The afternoon was bright, with a chill late-autumn breeze stirring through the trees and across the open fields. Patrick had to walk more than a mile past the end of the bus route, before coming to his destination. Even then, there was a long walk between an avenue of old trees to the stately farmhouse beyond. Before he turned towards the front door, he saw a figure off to the left, waiving and motioning him towards the barn. He recognized his hostess, Mrs. O’Donnell, but was surprised to see her in full riding habit. Coming closer, she turned and led him towards the barn door, which was open. He heard the sounds of horses inside. “Do you ride?” She asked.
“Not much anymore. I’m not dressed for it.” Now conscious he was dressed more appropriately to the city than country. “I was expecting more of a gathering.”
“I may have gotten my dates crossed. Sorry about that. I see you brought wine.” She motioned at the bottle tucked under his arm. “Bring that. I’ve had a picnic made for us.” She led him to a side entrance and pointed at a knoll alongside the pasture, handing him a basket and blanket, which was not light. “Head up to the top of that rise, set out the blanket; I’ll catch up with you there. I still have to tack up, the mare needs her exercise for the day.” Patrick hesitated a moment, wondering if his shoes were up to the walk, but the ground was dry enough to provide firm footing, and he felt self-conscious about asking for boots.
At his destination, he had a good vantage of the surrounding countryside for several miles to the north. Wide fields, now brown and fallow were divided by rows of trees serving as windbreaks. Several large flocks of nondescript blackbirds swirled in the distance, as if not knowing if they should be flying south, or finding somewhere to settle themselves. He wasn’t used to the openness and solitude of the countryside. He had become a creature of the city, always in someone’s gaze, and always within hearing of other conversations. The isolation reminded him of his walks on the tundra on the outskirts of Coppermine. The great gulf of isolation that separated him from the population many thousand miles to the south had a haunting, calling aspect to it. You heard crazy stories of people putting on snowshoes and just walking south.
Eventually, the sound of approaching hooves broke his reveries and called to mind how lonely he had been feeling. He didn’t feel as someone starved for company, but he realized in the city he had a way of filling his time either by work, or surrounded by friends and colleagues, mostly colleagues these days, truth be told. Mrs. O’Donnell rode into the clearing, dismounted and tied her horse to a nearby tree. “You didn’t open the wine? Here, make yourself useful,” she said, opening the basket and bringing out a corkscrew. She set to work arranging plates, sandwiches, apples and cheese. “So you can ride a horse, you said?”
Patrick muscled the cork out with a rather rustic style of corkscrew, not at all in the fashion of the shiny new gadgets that had appeared in the stores since the war. Anything can be moved with a lever and fixed point. The cork came out with a pop. He wasn’t especially knowledgeable on wines and became self-conscious that Mrs. O’Donnell was probably well versed on the various notable French chateaux. “I used to ride in Orleans around the farm when we were kids. ‘Twas more of a passion for Alison. I spent much of my youth waiting around barns and competition rings, while she practised show jumping. She won quite a few ribbons at local fairs around the province.”
“She has a natural athleticism. Even dolled up, you can see a vigour in her step. And she has a way of taking over the dance floor.” They ate the sandwiches, while the conversation moved from horses to hockey and eventually to art. On this cue, Mrs. O’Donnell brought out a sketchbook and showed him a few sketches, mostly pastoral scenes that she had been doing, including several studies of horses. “Do you mind if I sketch you? Life drawing is always the most challenging.” Patrick felt that he’d rather not, but couldn’t muster up a reason to say no. He must have settled himself into a reclining pose, because she didn’t even want him to rearrange himself.
“Alison told me you’ve been to the far north?”
Now trying to suppress the urge to reposition himself, and self-conscious under her gaze, he muttered, “I did a few study terms in the high arctic, mostly taking standard weather readings and high-level soundings,” which was not the whole truth.
“It must take a certain kind of man,” her pen still busy scratching at the pad, “… a certain self-reliant ruggedness to work in those conditions.” There was a slight teasing suggestiveness to her voice, as if she were enjoying his sense of discomfort.
“Well, not so much in the high arctic. There it’s just the Eskimos and military men. Like something out of a Buck Rogers movie serial. Most of the Eskimos natter in a completely incomprehensible language. The ones who translate are good-natured for the most part. In their caribou hides and sealskins, they were an odd sight. They looked at you as if you were odd, too. Sometimes they’d be watching you and bust out laughing, as if you were a child. They have a hunter’s heart; and a hunter’s eye. Their hands are quick and their filleting knife is never far from hand. But the place that brings to mind what you’re talking about was Val-d’Or. That place was full of all sorts of rough-and-ready frontiersmen. The lumberjacks heading out to the logging camps. Prospectors coming and going from secret locations in the dense wilderness. Bush Indians arriving with furs they had trapped. Half the dames in the town were prostitutes working in brothels.”
“Did you ever go?”
Patrick regretted dangling that conversational thread. “I tried to keep my distance. It wasn’t always possible. Sometimes the blokes would go off on a great bender and drag me along. ‘Twas considered a rite of passage.” Mrs. O’Donnell’s pencil had slowed down, as if her sketch was almost complete and just needed some light shadow fill. “It wasn’t really much of a lark. Mercenary, sort of. Cash was king.” Patrick tested out a minor shift in his position, as his legs had begun to cramp. “Except for the Widow Lachasse. She was one of the matrons. I think I was one of her special projects. Sometimes, when the house was quiet, she’d motion me into her parlour and open up some of her French wine. She liked to hear stories about my Uncle Gaspard and growing up around the apple orchard. She always had a look of fond nostalgia when I talked about reveillons and midnight mass.”
Back in the barn, Patrick began helping to untack the horse, but the job quickly seemed to become his, with Mrs. O’Donnell looking on, perhaps with an eye to another sketch, or a proper portrait sitting. He removed the saddle, which was quite heavy as lady’s saddles go, turned, and found himself almost face to face with her, now draped in a long dark coat that broadened her shoulders considerably. She still held her riding crop. “And what did you do when there was no one around like the Widow Lachasse to take care of you?” The riding crop reached forward to the front of his pants, moving up and down suggestively. “Hmmm? There must be lots of long, lonely nights. Or what about the boys who are lonely for their mother and want someone to kiss them goodnight? Or the ones who can’t bring themselves to masturbate and need a helping hand.”
Patrick turned around, to settle the saddle, which was awkwardly keeping him immobile, on its saddle horse. He turned back, with a plan to grab Mrs. O’Donnell and kiss her. Instead, he saw she had left the barn and was striding back toward the door of the main house. He still had to hang the rest of the tack and secure the horse in its stall.
Eventually following her path across the yard, and unsure if he was invited, he made his way into that back door of the main house and found himself in the mudroom. He saw Mrs. O’Donnell’s coat hanging on a hook, along with her helmet, crop and boots. He now noticed the fine quality of the boot leather and delicate etching work. He pulled off his own shoes, hung up his jacket and made his way through the kitchen. He was seemingly alone on the floor. The house had a similar layout to Avalon, only on a grander scale. Conspicuous in the hallway and stairwell were richly painted oil canvases, including a large portrait of Mrs. O’Donnell herself at the first landing of the main staircase. He made his way into the less formal parlour, although even here the room was full of oil paintings which gave it quite a grand effect. Looking more closely, even his non-expert eye could tell he was looking at museum-quality pieces.
He found a chair comfortably situated beside a fireplace, which only needed a little prodding to bring it back to a warm glow. He had not been properly dressed for an afternoon outdoors and had become uncomfortably chilled in the dampness of the barn. A large coffee table stretched out in front of him, offering an assortment of large, colourfully printed art books. Not knowing what else to do, and determined to stay at least long enough to warm himself up, he took hold of a book on Degas. Back at McGill, a cursory knowledge of art history was required to move comfortably in the narrow Anglo circles of Sherbrooke Street. He was expecting to find pictures of ballet dancers and street cafes. Instead, he found himself thumbing through quite a study of nude ladies preparing for their toilette. He was surprised at how many Degas had painted along this theme. Women earnestly plaiting their hair, pouring water into basins from ewers, towelling themselves off, alone and attended by servants. Most had simple titles like Femme au Toilette. Before any distinct notion took hold of what he should do next, he heard footsteps entering the room behind him. Instead of the expected hostess, he now found himself looking up at what must be Mr. O’Donnell.
“Can I help you?” The new figure asked nonchalantly, as if he was more interested in finding a misplaced lighter than who the stranger was sitting in his parlour.
“I’m waiting for Mrs. O’Donnell,” Patrick said, not sure if the words came out from his throat clearly enough to be convincing.
“I suspect Mrs. O’Donnell has already taken dinner in her bedroom and is preparing herself for an early night in bed.” Finding what he wanted, he now pulled out a cigar, which he fingered with relish. “You must be the lad from the University who was interested in the Riopelle.” He nodded approvingly at the Degas as Patrick placed it back, as if to say, yes, a man of taste. “Follow me, I’ll show it to you.”
Patrick followed the figure into what must have been an extension to the original house, and into a large room that served as a library and Mr. O’Donnell’s study. Patrick was left to pick out the Riopelle from the other paintings hung in the room, while Mr. O’Donnell poured out two glasses of port from a finely cut-glass decanter. Having not much more than a faint memory of the painting back at the faculty lounge, he took up a contemplative position in front of the most likely candidate, and received the glass placed into his hand. “Have you met the man?” Patrick indicated he hadn’t. “Despite spending most of his time in Paris, he kept a strong Canadian sensibility.” The sense of woodland landscape lurking inside an amorphous abstract was unmistakable. “Sit, sit,” he said gesturing to a chair in front of the large desk that dominated the corner of the room close to the fire. “You can see it quite as well from here.” He settled into his place behind the desk, moved an ashtray into place and lit his cigar. “Care for one?” Patrick shook his head. “You’re something of an outdoorsman yourself, so I hear?”
Patrick was a little taken aback that some knowledge had proceeded him into what he thought was merely a chance encounter. Not quite sure how to answer, not being a canoeist or mountain climber, “I’ve been to some remote places.” He realized he was probably playing right into the direction the conversation was intended to lead.
“Yes, yes. Keewatin and places in the far north like that.” Patrick’s security sense raised, cautioning himself to remain guarded about particulars when having conversations with strangers. The use of the old name suggested someone with familiarity with federal administrative districts. “Admirable. Especially in a young person such as yourself. The country needs people of energy and talent to help with the job of nation-building.” Patrick took in the aroma from the port, deep with age and wood tones. He settled himself for what was obviously not just an idle chat based on third-hand knowledge, but a continuation of the theme begun with his mentor at the Lord Elgin Hotel. No doubt one of the file folders arrayed at the side of the desk had his name on it.
