A Cheat and a Liar, page 27
‘Oh, God knows,’ he said. ‘There’s been a hell of a lot of talking, and about eighteen months ago, the state legislature passed an act that was supposed to enable counties to establish public port districts.’
‘So what happened?’ asked George.
‘Oh, there were about twenty thousand votes, but it was defeated by only about four hundred, because the silly bloody rural citizens reckoned it would only benefit the urban Tacoma business folk. Stupid bastards.’
‘So what happened then, and what’s going on at present?’
‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘We are just carrying on. The closeness of the vote showed that there are a lot of people who want the port to succeed, so we are getting rid of some of the old and unused buildings, and where there is a need for replacements, we are replacing. We have to all be careful, though, of what might happen to trade if war breaks out too, but in the meantime, we have plenty of work.’
The two men had done a lot of talking and walking, and George had seen what demolition and building was currently under way. In the end, he said, ‘Sam, I am only the new boy on the job, but if you can excuse me saying, ‘if I could choose, I would prefer to be added to your building team rather than the others.’
‘No, I am not offended by you asking, George. I have already decided your skill as a qualified builder is better utilised doing that; anybody can knock down something derelict. I want more brains, not brawn.’ The two men shook hands. George apologised for taking up so much of his time. They bid each other farewell, and George headed into town.
Sometime later, George had purchased a few items for his pantry; sufficient he hoped to see him through the week. He had bought his newspaper, and he was heading home. He wasn’t going to stay too long. A wash and freshen up and then back for a meal downtown and then home for an early night.
Monday arrived. George was on the wharf. He was early, which is what he wanted. Sam introduced him to the team he had been assigned to, and they had a motorised truck to take them to the site. An older guy called Reg seemed to be in charge, although everyone seemed to know exactly what they needed to do. They were erecting a huge warehouse-type building near to where a previous building had stood. George had been supplied with all the tools he needed at that point. There was a big stack of timber in site, and work was soon under way.
Reg spent almost an hour with George just answering any questions, and he had a plan that George or in fact any of the builders could refer to. Later in the morning, plumbers arrived on site, running pipes and fittings where framing was erected. The day went fast, and George liked the men he was working alongside. Everyone knew what they had to do and seemed to just get on and work; there wasn’t much talk while they worked, but they became relaxed and talkative after a loud siren sounded, at about ten o’clock, indicating it was time for morning smoko. Fifteen minutes later, the siren sounded again, and the men returned to work.
At midday, same again. Siren sounded, and the men wandered over to another shed. A lady was there with large baskets on which bags with names written indicated what various men had ordered for their lunch. George, of course, had not been aware of such service so had brought a variety of eats from his previous day’s shopping. One of the men asked George if he would like to give the lady his order for the following day. She had a list of food available with prices, and the idea was that you ordered and paid today for food to be supplied tomorrow. He decided he would try the system, and if the food was too expensive or not what he wanted, he could revert to bringing something as he had done that day.
The first day finished with men tidying the site. Odd lengths of timber that had not been used were stacked tidily. A young man, probably straight out of school, who had been helping during the day swept the area where men had worked and shovelled rubbish into a large drum, and then everyone got onto the truck and returned to a building near the entrance area. Inside, each man seemed to have a locker assigned to him with his name and provision for a padlock. Nobody had shown the lockers to George, so he selected one that was empty and clean, wrote his name on a piece of paper, and fitted it into the little slot on the door. It required a padlock to secure, and George had one he had used in Kamloops, so he told himself to remember to bring it with him the following day. There was sufficient room for each man to store his work apron and most of his hand tools, so George pushed what he had into the locker and shut the door.
The same routine continued each week day for two months or more, but George was beginning to feel restless again. During that time, he had spoken to many people. He had even looked in the newspaper and discreetly asked some he had met from out of town of what other towns further south in the state of Washington had to offer.
During his time in Tacoma, there was nobody that he had met that he could consider a close friend. Everybody was nice, but he had not made any real friends. His boss was a good man, and all who worked on site were pleasant and helpful, but they had their own lives to live. George’s social life at the weekends was mostly non-existent. He had enjoyed two meals with his landlady, and she was nice, but not someone that George would want to ask out.
She was a nice lady, but she swore a lot, which was foreign to women he had been attracted to in the past. She never seemed inclined to get dressed up or want to be seen in her best clothes.
In the end, he concluded that perhaps he was living in the wrong part of Tacoma. Maybe he should relocate to an area where more wealthy folk might live. Then one week at the end of June, he heard of a smaller town south of Tacoma on the same railway line called Bucoda. Someone had told him a sawmill was there, and although the population only extended to a few hundred people, houses were being built and land was cheap, and in the end, George told himself, Go and have a look, son. See what is there, see if the folk are friendly. By the following Saturday, George had booked a seat on the train, had his ticket, and was on his way to Bucoda.
He arrived just before noon. It was very warm. Only two other passengers left the train at Bucoda, and it seemed they lived there; they knew where they were going, and they spoke in familiar terms to others they met on arrival. George wandered up the main street, looking in the windows of shops as he went. Some were open and others closed, and George chuckled to himself. As he wandered, he thought back to little towns he had visited or passed through in a previous life, and he smiled. If you lived here, you wouldn’t need to earn much, George, he told himself, ’coz there’s nothing to spend it on. Just then, he came across Joe Dootsen’s Poolroom. Wonder whom I can find in this den of inequity? he asked himself and with that stepped inside.
‘Who do I see arrivin’ here?’ said the old-timer behind the small bar at the far end. ‘Welcome, stranger.’ George guessed he was just about to meet the landlord. Nobody else was in the place.
‘Welcome to you, my friend,’ George replied.
‘What will ya have ta drink, my man?’ said Joe.
‘Just a beer, and the colder the better,’ George replied.
‘Sounds like you’re a bloody English gentlem’n’ was the retort.
‘Don’t think I’m a gentleman, but you can call me “bloody English” all right,’ said George. He then paid for his beer and questioned Joe about the town.
He found out that the town had only been officially incorporated about four years previously; 27 May, 1910, I vividly remember it, best day’s tradin’ I’d done for years; reckon half the state was here to celebrate.
‘Good for you.’ George replied. ‘What’s here for me if a guy decided to come and live here?’ he added.
‘You could buy my poolroom—that would be a good start.’ George smiled at the old boy. They both laughed.
‘What sort of work do you do, Georgie boy?’ Again, George laughed at old Joe’s instant familiarity.
‘I’m a builder.’
‘Ah, a builder, now there’s a thought. There was a big mill here until it burnt down in 1912, October 10, actually. The local Justice of the Peace, in between fining local ratbags for their indiscretions, did have a mill down country, but after the fire, he has been operating a small mill here in Bucoda, ’cause there’s plenty of lumber here, and there’s folk wantin’ houses, so maybe that answers ya question. See ol’ Joe Dootsen’s not just a pretty ol’ face.’
George wanted to move on. He had talked to Joe for long enough. ‘Do you have accommodation here, or is there somewhere I can stay the night? I wouldn’t mind talking to this mill operator. What’s his name, Joe?’
‘He calls himself Edward Nichols, George. Don’t know if he might see you tomorrow. See it’s Sunday, and Mr Nichols and his good wife, Helen, they both keep their Sundays for the good Lord. They will be at church.’
‘That’s fine,’ said George. ‘I went to church once.’ He lied. He was a regular and attended every Sunday in a past life, and it was a Methodist Church too. ‘What faith does Mr Nichols follow?’
‘Ah, he is a staunch Methodist, Mr George, and he doesn’t help my business one little bit; he don’t play pool, and he don’t touch booze!’
‘Sounds like my sort of man, Joe. Where can I find a place to stay tonight?’
‘Try ol’ Rosie—no, I don’t mean try ol’ Rosie. I mean ask ol’ Rosie, who has the pub about 100 yards down the road. I am sure she can fit you up with a feed and a bed for the night.’
‘OK, Joe. Great talking to you. You have been a big help. I will head down and see Rosie, and I might track down Mr Nichols at church in the morning. What time is the church service start, Joe?’
‘Yeah, all the best. I think they start ’bout 11.00 a.m.,’ replied Joe.
George was happy. He was off to see if Rosie could help him with a meal and a bed. Yes, there was a room available, and, yes, the dining room opened at six o’clock and served meals until 9.00 p.m. George booked in for both and then went to his room, took off his boots and coat, and lay on top of his bed. He had his trusty daily newspaper with him, and as he lay down, he started reading the news of the day. Soon, it was time to eat, so he made his way downstairs and was shown to a table. ‘Something to drink, sir?’ a young lady asked.
‘Oh, most definitely,’ he replied.
‘What would you like?’
‘Ah,’ said George, ‘I’ll just have a beer—ah, whatever most of the local men drink,’ he continued, and shortly after, a cold beer in a tall glass tasted simply delicious. By the time he had finished the beer, the steak meal he had ordered had arrived. ‘Reckon, I should have another of those cold beers please, ma’am. Another of those, and this delicious meal—how could a man not sleep well tonight?’
Meal finished; George was ready for bed. We’ll see what this Nichols fellow has to offer and just see what happens. George had not even finished reading the newspaper completely, but he was tired so went to the bathroom, washed, cleaned his teeth, and was soon ready for bed. He turned off the light and shut his eyes.
He was surprised that when he opened them again, it was morning. There was plenty of time, so he lay there for a while and finished reading the last of yesterday’s paper, and then it was wash time, dress time, and walk to the dining room time. Menu: ‘cereal and then bacon and eggs, cooked any way’, the menu read. He thought it read as if they would give you a plate of cereal and then bacon and eggs, and whether you wanted the eggs cooked or raw, they would cook them anyway. He laughed at his own stupid interpretation of what to most people was a perfectly conventional notation to put on a menu. Just then, another different young lady from the one that had served him the evening before asked what he would like to order. ‘A large cup of tea, please, and then I will skip the cereal. I will have bacon and two poached eggs, please.’ The meal was soon in front of him, and George was soon heading back to his room to prepare for his casual walk to church. It was eleven minutes past ten. He would soon head out in the direction of the church and would hope to meet with this Mr Nichols and see whether it is worth making a shift to this part of the world.
Soon after, he was on his way. It was quite a small church, but it was well maintained. The minister for the service stood just inside the door, welcoming folk as they arrived. George walked up the steps to the entrance. A couple just in front of him were welcomed with a handshake, and George sensed they were locals as the reverend addressed both by their Christian names. Then they had gone, and George was met by an outstretched hand and a fairly loud voice proclaiming, ‘Welcome, sir, to the house of our Lord. I am the Reverend James Thompson.’
George took another step and replied, ‘Thank you for the welcome, Reverend. I’m George Morris, presently a resident of Tacoma.’
‘And what brings you here today, Mr Morris?’
‘I have never been to this part of the country, so I decided I would travel by train and see for myself and hopefully meet some of the lovely people who reside here.’
‘That’s lovely, and you are welcome,’ said the minister. George moved inside and found a pew three seats from the back. The service seemed fairly typical of what he had experienced in a previous life; a welcome, a prayer, a hymn, and then a reading and then a short story from the Bible for the young children gathered in the front two pews and then another hymn before the children departed. There was a third hymn, and then a collection plate was passed around, after which there was an Old Testament reading, which seemed to set the tone for the sermon; one more hymn, which George described as ‘sung with gusto’. As the singing concluded, the organist continued to play, giving the preacher time to walk from pulpit to front door before everyone slowly rose from their seats and made their way to bid the ‘old fella’ farewell until next Sunday. It seemed that most stood around for some time before wandering off; couples and individuals going from one to the other, shaking hands, occasionally kissing cheeks, until it seemed most had done the rounds.
George wondered how he could get into this kissing/shaking hands, merry-go-round, and before he knew it, the mass engulfed him, and soon he was shaking hands and fitting in the occasional kiss also. Oh, what a friendly bunch, he thought.
Finally, he saw a couple standing alone as if waiting for another person, so George approached them and said, ‘Excuse me, I’m George Morris. I have never been here before, but I understand there is a Mr Nichols who worships here. Can you please point him out to me?’
‘Oh, arh, yes,’ said the man, looking around to see if such man was still nearby. ‘There we are: that man with the black suit and the hat—that is your man.’
‘Thank you,’ said George, ‘I’m very grateful,’ and with that made his way across to where the man stood. While he waited, he suddenly had a twinge of conscience, something that rarely happened to George. I introduced myself as George Morris, he said to himself.
A minute or so later, he caught the man’s attention, and Mr Nichols extended his arm and said, ‘Good morning. Am I a wanted man? What I have done? How can I help?’ George introduced himself and said he was sorry to talk business on a Sunday, especially out the front of a church, and then he went on to explain how he was working in Tacoma at the port as a carpenter, and it had been mentioned that there was a mill operating in Bucoda, and as he had never been to this part of Washington, he would come and see for himself. He explained that he had been in Seattle, and the city life was not what he wanted, and a friend had told him they were hiring workers on the wharf in Tacoma. Life was fine there, but he still felt that folk in these bigger towns never seemed to have time for friends and enjoyment of life; they always seemed busy. A quiet life in a small town was what he hoped to find, and if he could find work and somewhere to rent, he would move to Bucoda.
Nichols listened until George seemed to run out of breathe and then said, ‘Yes, OK, George. Look, I don’t normally even think work on a Sunday, but as you have taken the time to travel all this way, I will make an exception. How about you come to my house at 2.30 p.m. today? My wife and I always stay home on Sunday afternoons, and we have afternoon tea at about two thirty.’ He gave George his address. ‘Bucoda is such a big place, you can walk anywhere—no, everywhere in about fifteen minutes. You will find us.’ Both men extended their arms and shook hands, and then George headed back towards the hotel.
After a light lunch, he left the hotel. It was warm, actually almost hot. George had left his suit coat behind and just wore a waistcoat over his shirt and tie. He wanted to look respectable but didn’t feel it necessary to go as far as being attired totally in a suit. Mr Nichols had been quite correct when he had said that nowhere in Bucoda was ‘very far’. He found the address easily and was impressed with the grandiose villa that the family called home. He walked around to the rear door, although he had noticed the front entrance was open. He knocked briefly but hard. A lady came to the door. ‘You are Mr Morris. I was behind my husband talking to a group of ladies when you and he met this morning.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Nichols. I trust your husband told you I was coming to briefly annoy him on the only day the poor man has to relax.’
‘Oh, no problem, Mr Morris. He knows that any man in business cannot always choose when he must see people. You are very welcome. Come through to our lounge; he is waiting for you. We are just about to have a hot drink. Will you have cup of tea or coffee with us also, Mr Morris?’
‘That’s very kind. Thank you. Yes a cup of tea, would be appreciated,’ said George and followed the lady as she headed in the direction of her husband.
As George entered the room, another lady stood up and was about to leave. ‘Oh, Mr Morris, this is my daughter, Annette.’ They both smiled, and George said how very nice it was to meet her, and she hesitated and then returned the compliment and continued on her way. The two men shook hands again, and both sat down. ‘So tell me, George—George, isn’t it? Yes, George, tell me a little bit about yourself and what you have done in the timber and building trade?’
