The Island Walkers by John Bemrose Page A

along Water. Fifty paces ahead of them, Joe scraped along in his jeans and T-shirt, armoured, as it seemed to Alf, in the trappings of his secret life. What was the boy thinking about? Alf had no idea. Six forty-five. A torrent of light rushed the trees on Lookout Hill. Birds sang like mad from maples shrouding the small front yards. They passed the brick cottage where Alf had grown up — the same ragged cedar hedge, the same balding lawn — under the maroon leaves of the maple Alf’s father had planted in 1939, when Alf’s brother had gone off to war. He always sensed a presence here, as if his parents were alive still,peering out from the curtained windows, waiting for them to come back. But he gave the house scarcely a glance. He didn’t want memories now, any more than he wanted talk. Enough to be awake in the flooding light. Mercifully, Pete was keeping quiet.
    The main street still lay in shadow. Others were travelling with them, on the opposite sidewalk, or gliding past in cars: all headed for the mills, all wrapped, still, in the solitariness of their recent sleep. They passed the white pillars of the war memorial: Alf did not give it a glance, though he was aware of it, of the names carved in its stone, a chorus breathing, it seemed, with a nearly inaudible hush, under the stir of leaves. Then past the hardware store with its display of powerful lawn mowers, the tiny office of the Attawan Star , where the show window featured a large aerial photo of the town, the forking rivers a dark, inverted Y. High overhead, the eastern face of the post-office clock met the assaulting light.
    Pete tugged down his visor, to shield his eyes from the sun streaming down Bridge Street. Bannerman’s whistle gave a warning howl. I better get that old Jacquard going, Alf thought, and felt the sudden shock of cool air as they advanced over the Shade.
    Pete gave a tap to the bridge rail, as though for luck. “Alf, I just put this out to you —”
    Something in his friend’s tone alerted him. Far ahead, Joe reached the end of the bridge and abruptly pivoted towards the path that ran along the dyke. His sudden movement shocked Alf, as if the boy had simply flung himself away.
    “You might have heard. There’s this organizer in town —”
    Overhead, gulls screamed.
    “A bunch of us have been meeting with him. Nothing’s settled, like. We’re just checking out our options.”
    “Doyle,” Alf said, half to himself. He hadn’t heard anything of the man for a couple of weeks. He’d begun to believe, to hope , that he’d left town.
    Pete gave a little laugh that to Alf sounded guilty. “I guess maybe he’s talked to you.”
    “I think maybe you know he’s talked to me.”
    “Yeah, yeah, well actually —”
    “Well actually what?”
    “I said I’d speak to you.”
    “About what?” Alf said grimly. Of course he knew. He glanced sharply at his friend and Pete’s nervous eyes fled under his visor.
    “Like I said, we’re just checking out our options.”
    “You don’t have any —”
    Pete fell silent. Alf knew he was being remorseless with him, unusually so. And still he had anger to burn: he tried to put it into walking, as if he could simply leave Pete’s news behind. Up ahead, Joe had already disappeared from the dyke. There was a stink of decaying river weed. And the screaming gulls.
    They were not used to major disagreements. They might argue about who was the better hockey player, Pulford or Baun, but their friendship was built on an easy amiability — an understanding they would avoid anything that roused strong emotion. It was no preparation for this — the air bright with danger.
    Pete tried again, on a placating note: “A union can do things, Alf. These layoffs — if we had a union, there’d be seniority, like.”
    “You always said you were anti-union.”
    “I mean, they wouldn’t be able to treat people like they do. There’d be protocols.”
    “Protocols,” Alf mocked. He was sure Pete had