Many Unpleasant Returns (3 page)

“And will there be enough people to help if her arthritis acts up in the event we don't keep the inn warm enough? And Tiffany forgets to leave her an extra blanket? And she forgets to take her medication? And if it's especially cold and damp here, which she has heard a rumour is going to be the case throughout southern Ontario and upper New York State? And are we prepared for that?”

Tim laughed, picked up the decorations and headed for the ballroom.

“And did Gregoire remember that Walter is not to have too much salt or spice and that he requires prunes daily?”

Margaret nodded.

“And how is the bat problem?”

“How
is
the bat problem, Rudley?”

He slammed his fist down on the desk. “Margaret, doesn't that damn woman know the bats sleep all winter?”

“There was that one last January.”

“He got confused because we had an unseasonably warm spell. I told her it's going to be as cold as a witch's — ”

“We won't worry about bats then,” she interrupted.

“I hope her brother Harry isn't like her, although I don't know how anybody could be like her.”

“You've always said the Sawchucks are stimulating.”

“So is a burr under a cat's tail. That doesn't mean it's welcome.”

“I agree, Rudley, the Sawchucks are a challenge. But we also have most of our old regulars. The Phipps-Walkers are coming. Mr. Bole. And Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson. I wonder if they're planning to have children soon.”

“If they are, I hope they're not planning on bringing them here.”

“Of course we'll have them here. Don't be a grouch, Rudley.”

He looked at the reservation book. “Look at all these new people. Mr. James Morton from London, England. What's he doing here at this time of year?”

“He said he was here to settle his father's estate. He'll be here just the four days, then he'll be home for Christmas.”

“Then you have these couples, Keith and Sheila Nesbitt at the Oaks and Carla and Peter Johnson at the Low Birches. Why aren't they home with their families?”

She looked at him, bewildered. “For the same reasons people come here every year. Their families have other plans. They may be visiting friends and family in the area who can't accommodate them. Or they want to go skiing.”

“Then there's this Ted Franklin. He reserved with the Johnsons. What is this, Margaret, a ménage à trois?”

“They're friends. Mrs. Johnson made the reservations for her husband, herself, and their friend, Mr. Franklin. He isn't staying in the same cabin with them. He's at the Pines.”

“I hope it's not a ménage à trois.”

“We've probably had that situation before and didn't know about it. If people are discreet …”

“I hate the idea of presiding over a den of iniquity.” Rudley shook his head. “I tell you, Margaret, the first time a couple registered as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, the die was cast.”

“There are worse things in the world.”

“And who is this?” Rudley pointed at the register. “Mrs. Irene Gowling…”

Margaret took the register from him. “Mrs. Gowling is that lovely lady I mentioned to you. She stayed here decades ago.” She noted a memo written in the margin. “She's coming by train. I'll have Lloyd swing around by the station.”

“Can't she take a cab?”

“She sounded very old, Rudley, and frail. With the snow and, perhaps, ice and in a strange place…and if a lot of people are coming to the inns, perhaps she would have trouble getting a cab. She sounded like a lovely soul.”

Rudley huffed. “How lovely can she be if no one's invited her to spend Christmas with them?”

“She may not have anyone left to have her for Christmas. What would you do if you were a very old man and had no one around to have you for Christmas?”

He looked at her, incredulous. “Margaret, I'd have people falling over themselves to have me. Besides, as you promised, there'll always be Lloyd.”

“True.” She stepped out from behind the desk. “Rudley, I'm going into the ballroom to help Tim sort the decorations. We may need a few new things.”

“Which will necessitate a trip to Mrs. Blount and the Flower Company,” he murmured as she left.

He thought, what would he do at Christmas if he were elderly and alone? He'd cancel the whole damn thing. Christmas existed so some people could make other people miserable with their good cheer and peace on earth. He'd had wonderful Christmases as a child with his parents and his brothers Ben and Alex in their sprawling frame house in Galt. The stockings, the gifts, the scrumptious dinner, his father arriving late for dinner after delivering a baby, laden with cookies from the nurses at the hospital. The next day he and his boyhood pal, Squiggy Ross, sledding or skating. He smiled. What wonderful days they were. What a wonderful childhood he had enjoyed. Fond memories of Squiggy, the happy lad with the blue eyes, blond curls and gap-toothed smile, now a homeless, toothless, bald drunk begging on street corners.

He paused, his pen skidding off the paper as he started to sign his name. Squiggy. Oh, no matter, he thought. Squiggy would be looked after, as he was every Christmas. Ben, who lived in the old homestead, would find Squiggy on his usual corner, take him home, scrub him up, and plunk him down at the dining room table. After dinner, Squiggy would get restless and Ben would take him to the shelter of his choice. Or if Squiggy had passed out, Ben would put him in the rumpus room for the night. Ben was like their father. Bringing a filthy, badly behaved man into their home for Christmas dinner, even when his highfalutin daughters-in-law were present, didn't bother him a bit.

It had been a long time since he'd spent the holidays with Ben. His brother Alex and his wife, Belle, came by the inn from time to time. But Ben was an old country doctor like their father. And like their father, he would never leave his patients. Rudley shook his head. Imagine being so wedded to one's responsibilities that you couldn't leave them every now and then. He put the papers aside, leaned over the desk and looked dreamily around the room. The Pleasant was made for Christmas. Natural pine boughs on the mantel scented the air. The flicker of flames in the fireplace danced over the original — and lovingly maintained — hardwood floors. A Christmas card world of conifers weighed down with snow was visible through bevelled windowpanes, with winterberries a startling contrast to the grey and white of winter.

A few days after Christmas, the lake would be frozen deep enough for ice fishing. Then Lloyd would go out with an ice auger and cut a hole for Norman Phipps-Walker. Norman would sit with his line in the water for a couple of hours and come home happy, though his basket was empty. It was a standing joke at the Pleasant that the fish were perfectly safe when Norman was around.

He turned to the reservation book. All of these years, opening his home to strangers at Christmas — it was almost Biblical. He smiled, feeling suddenly cheerful, and whistled a few bars of “White Christmas.” It was going to be a splendid holiday at the Pleasant. Gregoire was going overboard with the menu. Margaret was going overboard with the decorations, the plans for Music Hall and the play in the coach house. Tiffany would be home, and he could keep a close eye on that rapscallion Thornton. It would be a Christmas like no other. It would be as he and Margaret vowed every Christmas — one their guests would never forget.

 

The dining room was sparsely populated at 7:00 am — most of the rooms and cabins were empty, as was usual in the week preceding the Christmas rush. That would soon change as the guests piled in for the holidays. The event they were preparing for this morning was a Christmas brunch for the local artists' community, a charity Margaret had set up, which involved an art auction. The Pleasant Inn's contribution was the meal and the space. After he and Margaret reviewed some of the pieces, Rudley concluded it might be cheaper to can the brunch auction and buy the paintings himself. Although, he thought, God knows where I would hang some of them. Margaret never entered her work in the auction. She explained it would be a conflict of interest. He thought it was because once the patrons had seen her work, no one would bid on anything else.

The laundryman's truck pulled up out front at that moment. Rudley stirred from his reverie, sprang from behind the desk, and ran to the door. A gust of wind dumped a load of snow down his neck as he started down the steps.

“I want to talk to you,” he yelled. “When you're finished.”

The laundryman acknowledged him with a wave.

Rudley returned to the desk, shivering as the snow melted down his back.

A rotund, impeccably dressed gentleman with rimless glasses and a neatly trimmed beard came down the stairs and stopped at the desk.

“Mr. Morton,” Rudley greeted the guest who had checked in the night before. “Breakfast is being served in the dining room.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rudley,” Mr. Morton responded in a cultured British accent, “I've already eaten. I had Tim bring something up.”

“Oh.”

“It didn't make sense to eat alone in the dining room, especially as it's set up for the brunch.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Rudley, who didn't think it mattered a tinker's damn.

“And I wanted to get an early start,” Mr. Morton went on. He tapped his briefcase. “I have quite a lot to do and an important meeting.”

“Settling an estate is a big responsibility.”

Mr. Morton sighed. “Indeed it is.” He turned and almost fell over Albert, who had chosen that moment to stretch out his legs. “Oh, my,” he said as he recovered from the stumble.

“I'm sorry. Albert thinks he has a duty to trip anyone who walks by the desk.”

Albert rolled over and gave Rudley a dog smile.

“No, no,” said Mr. Morton, “it's these dreadful new glasses. I can see close up and I can see the big picture but the middle remains a challenge.”

“I've heard the new types take some adjustment.”

“Anyway, I'm off,” Mr. Morton said. “I expect I'll be back by supper.”

“We'll see you then.”

Harmless but rather pretentious, Rudley thought, returning to his work. The estate Mr. Morton had come to settle belonged to his father, a Second World War veteran who had owned a small farm on the upper road. The older Mr. Morton had married an Englishwoman — whoever in their right mind would do that, he thought, chuckling — he'd met overseas during the war and had brought home. The couple had two children, a boy and a girl. Then they got divorced and she returned to England with the kids. He gathered they had all kept in touch over the years. The older Mr. Morton had sold off his farm bit by bit, and at the time of his death owned fewer than five acres, none of it prime land, and was living in a retirement home. The old man had lived in a state of genteel poverty for years. Rudley couldn't imagine there was much of an estate to settle. He shrugged. Perhaps the old man had a fortune stuffed into his mattress.

The laundryman came up the back steps. He ignored Rudley and popped into the dining room. A few minutes later he returned.

“Didn't you see me trying to get your attention?” Rudley demanded.

“I did.” The laundryman stopped at the desk and smiled. “And I knew what you wanted and knew there was no need for haste.”

“You did?”

“Of course. You were worried I would forget the red and green serviettes for Christmas, in addition to your standard whites.”

“Oh,” said Rudley, deflated.

“Of course I remembered,” the laundryman went on, “as I have, year after year. In fact, to allay your fears, and in case I would be unable to make a second trip this week because of the anticipated storms, I brought a double order — as Mrs. Rudley and I agreed.” He addressed Rudley's bewildered expression. “You have heard about the impending storms?”

“Of course I've heard about the damn storms,” Rudley said, peeved that the laundryman and Margaret had made an arrangement he wasn't privy to. “Everyone who passes my desk reminds me. You'd think we'd never had snow in this country before.”

“From what I hear, Rudley, it's going to be one of those tie-a-rope-between-the-house-and-the-barn affairs and it may go on without clearing for days.”

“So I've heard and I can appreciate the panic of those who have not taken appropriate precautions and are relying on some divine source for supplies and electricity, heat and water. But since we have generators, an ample supply of food and enough provisions to last Napoleon's army through his entire imperial adventure, I do not believe we have any reason for concern.”

“People often downplay the impact of weather prognostications, Rudley, and end up in an armoury wearing toe tags.”

“I can assure you I won't be one of those.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I, for one, am glad to be in the village where we can band together, if necessary.”

“Lovely. It always warms the cockles of my heart to hear about these communal efforts.”

The laundryman gestured toward the dining room. “I took a look at the art on display. I got the brochure, of course, but you really have to see things in person.” He leaned toward Rudley and whispered. “I can't be here in person but I've put in a reserve bid on
Autumn in Paradise
.”

“
Autumn in Paradise
?” Puzzled, Rudley grabbed one of the brochures Margaret had left on the desk. “Oh, that's the one that looks as if someone had stepped in red and orange paint and wiped his feet on the canvas.”

The laundryman smiled. “I can see you're a connoisseur of modern art, Rudley. The value of the work can be seen in its exquisite texture and proportionality of colour. It is the ultimate abstract experience of our autumn season, captured perhaps more faithfully than anything from our Group of Seven.”

“If you say so.”

“I always took you for a Grandma Moses sort of man,” the laundryman said, patting Rudley's wrist. “I'd best be on my way.”

“You'd best.”

The laundryman left, pausing to say a few words to Margaret, who had just come up the back steps from the basement.

“Mr. MacAvoy has put a reserve bid on one of our paintings,” Margaret told Rudley.

“So he said,” Rudley murmured. “If there are many more around with his tastes you should have a successful auction.”

“We will, Rudley. And it's for a good cause. To support emerging artists who can't be seen in the more uptown places. Creative people need encouragement.”

“Or not.” Rudley tossed the brochure into the wastepaper basket.

“And it'll give them a little extra for the Christmas season.”

He sighed. “Yes, it will. Even lousy artists deserve a decent meal.”

“You're a generous soul, Rudley.”

“I am.” Receiving no further affirmations, he said, “Mr. Morton just left. He's a bit of a pretentious boob.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, he's one of those Englishmen without a pot to piss in back home who comes over here, tones down his Cockney accent, and acts as if he's minor royalty. I find him rather grating.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“He's acting as if he's here to settle the estate of one of the Siftons or Eatons or whoever has money these days. I can't imagine that his father had more than enough to live on month to month when he died.”

“I don't think he means to be pompous, Rudley,” Margaret responded after a moment's reflection. “Settling an estate may seem a complicated affair to him. He's in a foreign country. He told me his father didn't leave a will, except for a few things he mentioned to people at the retirement home. That always makes it more difficult. That's probably what he meant. On the other hand, his father could have been one of those hermits who had wads of money. That happens too.”

“I suppose.”

“People aren't always what they seem,” she said and trotted off into the dining room.