A gravel drive off Esplanade angles outside the laurel hedge of the Sanderson’s back yard. It’s a no-man’s land, beyond their purview, but still inside the legal description of VORLand’s End. A quadruped, the camper stands ever at attention on its spindly legs, supported under its chest and belly by two saw horses.
“We bought it new,” Bernice was saying, “drove it across Canada and back through the States, just after Harry retired.” She quavered, her words faltering as if she had lost her way, trying to rediscover the contours of a once familiar, now foreign landscape. “We’ve been everywhere in it, and when we weren’t travelling, we used it as our summer cottage, up at Lake Cowichan, or Port Renfrew, Ucluelet, Tofino.”
“And now?”
“It’s been a few years since we’ve taken it anywhere. We thought of selling her but decided not to. It’s our overflow guest room when family and friends are visiting.”
“And the truck?” Buddy nodded toward the pickup parked in front of the camper.
“We used it for runs up to the dump, home Renos, that sort of thing. Figured we should hang onto it, just in case we ever decided to sell the camper. You need a one-ton to carry it, and we thought we’d do better if we sold them as a package. Harry can’t drive it anymore, so we’ll have to get it insured if anyone wants to use it.”
She appraised him with an inquiring gaze.
“Ah,” he said.
They made their way round to a collapsible set of aluminium stairs hooked up to the back of the Looner Module. “I won’t go in with you,” Bernice said. “There’s no railing, and I’m a bit shaky, so if you don’t mind, I’ll wait down here while you have a look inside.”
‘Okay’, he said, starting up the stairs, surprised how wobbly they were.
“I hope it’s not in too much of a state. Our son used it last and said he’d clean up before he left.”
Buddy opened the door and stepped inside. “Ship shape,” he called back to her, scanning the compact, tidy space.
Never thought of living in a camper before. Never even been in one.
Wonder what Leanne and the kids will think if they ever find out where I’ve landed.
Despite niggling doubts, however, he found himself appreciating the possibilities of a recuperative space not much wider than an arm-span and no deeper than a monk’s cell.
“Everything a person needs is there,” Bernice called from outside.
True. Except, perhaps, a packet of sanity pills in one of its cupboards.
“A full set of dishes and cutlery, for two…” Bernice paused her realtor’s patter, and he sensed her smile… “Stove, oven, and microwave in the galley; bathroom with shower; queen-size bed with reading lamps…
“We’ve hooked it up to the sewer, water, and power of the main house,” she continued. “So you’ll have as much privacy as you want.”
A sort of fibreglass womb.
Buddy imagined himself curled up on the camper’s bed in fetal position, thumb in mouth. Grotesque! His expression soured as the vision liquified, absorbed in the spongy matrix of his mind.
“It’s perfect, Bernice!”
“So you’ll take the position?”
“Yes.” He smiled from the top of the steps, surprised at his own relief. “But let’s go slow. Okay? If someone else comes along who’s better suited, or if you feel things aren’t working out like you’d hoped, tell me. I’ll move on; no hard feelings. Alright?
“I’ll send post cards from wherever I go.”
“Agreed!” She held her hand up for him to shake.
Buddy made his way down the rickety steps and accepted her offer with one curt pump. “Good,” he said. “I’ll start moving in.”
“And I do hope you will join Harry and me for dinner tonight,” Bernice held firm his hand. “As you may recall, the ad said room and board.”
“I’m hoping the ‘board’ part might be casual, Bernice, on an occasional basis.”
“And so it shall be, Mr. Buddy… My friends call me Bernie, by the way. But I do hope tonight will be a celebratory occasion, over a hearty supper, and,” she hesitated a moment, “…that we can manage at least one or two meals a week together. Nothing binds a community or family more than the breaking of bread and sipping of wine, don’t you think?”
He looked doubtful.
She laughed. “Please don’t be alarmed by my turns of phrase. Any reference to grace or prayer is purely literary. It’s that high school English teacher in me, complicating things again. Any praying Harry and I do is strictly between us and whatever higher spirit we happen to be communing with in the privacy of our own hearts. You won’t have to hold hands and bow your head or anything like that.”
“Okay,” he laughed.
“So you’ll join us?”
“Yes!” he surrendered, feeling again the pleasure of giving in to Bernie’s gentle humour.
Next: Photographic Memory