Her summons was more a tapping than a knocking. Buddy opened the door, looked round, but didn’t see her at first. Not until she said, “Down here.”
“Bernice!” he laughed.
“I didn’t want to risk those rickety steps, so I thought I’d just knock from down here, keep my feet on solid ground. Wouldn’t want you to have to cart me off to emergency to get my leg put in a cast… or worse.”
“You could have phoned. I’d be at your back door in a jiffy.”
Glancing round at the driveway’s perimeter hedge, she said sotto voce, “I wanted to talk in private. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all! Do you want to come in?”
She glanced uneasily at the steps. Buddy hurried down and offered his hand, then backed into the camper ahead of her. “It’s such a bother, this getting old. It’s like the world is always trying to trip you up or shake you off. ‘You’ve been here long enough,’ it’s saying. ‘Time for you to settle into your grave and go to sleep.’”
He couldn’t help smiling at her lament as he ushered her into the dining nook and took his seat on the opposite bench. She looked around, wistfully.
“I bet you and Harry have lots of special memories about the places you’ve gone in this thing,” Buddy said.
“Oh yes!” she sighed. “But you know, it isn’t the long voyages I remember most; it’s all the places around here we used to go and set up camp for a week or two. This camper was our summer cottage most years. We’d put it on the truck and waddle off like a great big tortoise down the road. Miracle Beach, Port Renfrew, Sayward, Nixon Creek—that was our favourite place of all. We’d just roll in, set up our home away from home, and relax, knowing that—if we had to—we could always be back home in a couple of hours.”
“When was the last time you used it?”
“The Looner Module hasn’t been off those horses for at least ten years now. It’s become our spare room. Harry’s always maintained it, or had it maintained after he got too old, and I threatened to crack his skull myself rather than wait until he fell off a ladder. The camper and truck are in good running order, but we can’t say the same for ourselves. Harry’s dangerous enough pushing his walker through town; I’d hate to think what might happen if he got behind the wheel of this monster. Which is sort of ironic, considering he drove logging trucks for forty years.”
“Do you need a special license to drive this thing?”
Bernice looked startled. “You’re not thinking…” She left the sentence unsaid, as if speaking the thought might make it deniable.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer, but he could tell she was intrigued.
“That’s not what I came to talk about,” she said, after a brief pause. “I’ve read your version of Harry’s story…”
“And?”
“I see what you’re trying to do, Buddy, and I do appreciate it. It’s well written, if I may say so—being a retired English teacher.”
“But?”
“I’m concerned that the point of Harry’s journal may have been lost in the translation.”
Buddy waited.
“That boy, Arthur? I’ve never been able to find out anything about him. When I arrived here in ’46, Harry hadn’t told me his story. But it wasn’t long before I heard him calling out in his dreams—nightmares, more like. ‘Gypsy!’ he’s always calling that dog, but I’ve never heard him calling out for his friend Arthur.
“I asked, and he told me about Arthur and Gypsy going missing. But he’s only given me the sketchiest of details.
“I was new in town and didn’t know who else to talk to. And by the time I did start asking around, nobody seemed to remember the incident. It had happened twenty-odd years before. But even the old timers didn’t have any recollection. Harry said Arthur’s family left Chemainus during the depression.”
“So, what are you saying, Bernice?”
“That there’s something strange about that story—something haunting. Harry’s getting even more desperate to resolve whatever it was happened up there on The Hermit’s Trail now that… you know…”
“The Hermit’s Trail? What’s that?”
“It runs up from the E&N rail line to St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. That’s why Harry’s always been drawn to Mural #36. Now he’s obsessed with it.
“I’d hate to think he’s going to depart this world ladened with that pocket full of stones you have me talking about in your version of his story. I know it sounds crazy, but I think he’s still looking for his lost childhood friend Arthur, and, if he doesn’t find him he’s going to leave this world with unfinished business.”
“What do you want me to do, Bernice?”
“Help me. Help Harry. Help us find the ghosts of Arthur and Gypsy.”
“How can I do that?”
“You’re a reporter. You’ve got your ways of ferreting out the truth. We have to know the real story of that boy and his dog.”
Buddy tried not to look too doubtful. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
“Please! And don’t tell Harry,” she pleaded. “He’ll clam up tighter than Fort Knox if you do.”