By September of 1949, Connie Del Barba was becoming well-known in New York City. 

‘Look, honey. I’m gonna be eighty in a few months and I’ve got no kids and enough money that I can be stupid. So, I bought a hotel on the waterfront where I live. I need acts,’ said Connie, blowing smoke right into the telephone’s mouthpiece.

‘I see, Mrs. Del Barba,’ came the voice on the other end.

‘Connie. Just Connie. I don’t have that long to live,’ she said.

‘Connie. What kinds of acts?’ asked Ben Bart, an agent at Universal Attractions. 

‘Music. Jazz, mostly. All kinds of jazz. Soul. Stuff people want to hear,’ said Connie.

‘You mean they’ll pay to hear?’ asked Ben.

‘Damn well better,’ said Connie. ‘I’ve got down-home music up to my eyes – it’ll sell like hotcakes, but not forever. Gotta give new stuff. Switch it up, you know?’

‘I do. So, this place,’ said Bart, audibly shuffling papers, ‘this Gramercy Hotel. Good venue? How big?’

‘Depends on the act. Restaurant for small. Ball room for supper club size. I want established and up-and-comers,’ said Connie. 

‘No colour restrictions?’ asked Ben.

‘Damn well better not be. And I’ve got a friend, a doctor, who’s Black and he owns a big hotel up the coast. Couple of other places around here, too. Might make a little tour for your acts,’ dangled Connie. ‘I’m sweetening the pot, in case you didn’t catch my drift.’

‘You want to hear them, I take it?’ asked the agent.

‘In person. And I want to open my club in May,’ said Connie. 

‘Okay. Leave it with me for a day or two, and I’ll get back to you. How’s your time in December?’ asked Ben.

‘I hate Christmas, so, good,’ said Connie.

‘Right. Good to talk to you, Connie,’ said Ben.

‘Don’t hang up yet, Benny. I want you to meet someone. A singer. I want you to hear her,’ said Connie.

There was an audible sigh, but greed got the better of the agent and he brightly agreed: ‘Sure. Sure, I can hear her. Jazz singer, too?’

‘Opera. When we figure out some dates, set her up with a couple of auditions, will ya? I’ll pay. I’m not lookin’ for favours, Benny. Not yet, anyhow,’ she snorted.

Ben the agent laughed. He had no idea how much to believe about what he’d just heard, but it had certainly been the most entertaining phone call that day. ‘Talk to you on Wednesday morning, Connie.’

‘Good,’ said Connie, and hung up.

On the twelfth day of December, Connie Del Barba was in a taxi outside Jimmy and Sandy Urquhart’s home. It was a cold day, and although she was swaddled in fox, she was not about to get out of the nice warm cab. 

‘Lay on the horn,’ she instructed Mr. Shaftment, the owner of the cab.

‘If you don’t mind, Mrs. D.B., I’ll just go and rap on the door,’ said Mr. Shaftment, a tall, thin man of about sixty years. He did not wait for the inevitable countermand. He rang the bell and Sandy Urquhart answered the door. Sandy was about thirty, with short brown hair, and a trim figure. She shrugged on a thick wool overcoat.

‘Jimmy, cab’s here! Hiya, Mr. Shaftment. I’m all set. Just got to say goodbye,’ said Sandy.

‘I’ll take your grip,’ said Mr. Shaftment.

Jimmy Urquhart came out of the kitchen carrying Little Jack, who was now nearly six months. Little Jack was not quite as little as he had been. ‘Take care, sweetie, and try to keep Connie out of trouble.’

‘Not going to happen. I’m just going to concentrate on keeping Musetta on the straight and narrow. Who knows what Connie’s got cooked up,’ said Sandy, pulling on her gloves.

‘And you’re back on Sunday, right?’ asked Jimmy, who was trying hard not to look as nervous as he felt. This would be the first time that he’d have sole charge of Little Jack for an entire week. 

‘You’ll be okay. Janet-the-sitter has only a couple of exams, so she’ll be available most days. My sister can cover a little, too,’ said Sandy, giving her husband a peck on the cheek.

The horn of the taxi was sounded. Mr. Shaftment was still putting Sandy’s bag in the trunk.

‘Connie’s got a bee on,’ said Jimmy. ‘You getter go.’

‘Bye, sweetie!’ said Sandy and she hurried down the steps to the driveway.

‘Okay, the Burrells’ place,’ barked Connie as Sandy closed her door.

Musetta Burrell was standing on the porch, flanked by her brothers, Marc and Roly. Impossibly, the two young men looked even more worried than their sister.

Connie rolled down her window as Mr. Shaftment got out of the taxi to open the trunk. ‘Come on, you two. Bring her bags. Planes don’t wait!’

Marc and Roly jumped a little, picked up their sister’s two small bags, and hurried to the back of the taxi. Mr. Shaftment did a little re-arranging as the Burrell family hugged and said goodbye.

‘Get in the car, Musie!’ ordered Mrs. Del Barba. 

Musetta meekly obeyed and climbed in beside Mr. Shaftment, her full skirt nearly covering the gear shift. She quickly pulled it in tight. If this was to be the day of her death, she didn’t want it to happen on the way to the airport.

‘You bring your driver’s licence?’ asked Sandy, gently.

‘Yes, Mrs. Urquhart. Like you said. You sure I don’t need a passport?’ asked Musetta, quietly. Her face was white and she looked ready to cry.

‘No, sweetie. It’s just the States. Driver’s licence is just fine, so far. Might change someday, but not now. Relax and enjoy the ride. We’ve got plenty of time,’ said Sandy.

‘First time on a plane?’ asked Mr. Shaftment.

‘Yes, sir. First time off the island,’ said Musetta.

‘Big adventure,’ said Mr. Shaftment. ‘Enjoy it. Not many girls get to go to New York City. And if anyone knows the place, it’ll be Mrs. Del Barba.’

‘Mrs. Urquhart, too. She worked there, you know. In the war,’ said Connie. ‘Gonna be fun, girls!’

After changing planes and going through customs in Boston, the women boarded an American Airlines’ flight to New York. At eleven P.M., they descended the steps to LaGuardia Field in Queens. They walked into the terminal building, waited for their bags to arrive, and then, with the assistance of two porters, headed for the taxi rank.

‘Where to, lady?’ asked the cabbie.

‘Essex House. And there’s a big tip if you get me there before I fall asleep,’ said Connie, lighting a Sweet Caporal cigarette.

They were mostly quiet on the ride from Queens to Manhattan. Musetta was sitting behind the driver, her face glued to the window beside her. Connie poked Sandy in the ribs and jerked her head towards Musetta. Sandy glanced to her left and then back to Connie. Both women smiled. 

‘Good thing it’s after dark,’ whispered Sandy. ‘Toe in the water.’

‘I envy the kid. First time in New York. What I wouldn’t give,’ said Connie.

Musetta suddenly turned to them wide-eyed. They had entered the Queens-Midtown tunnel. The lights whizzed by – the oncoming traffic, light at that hour – seemed impossibly close. Sandy patted Musetta’s hand and Musetta returned to the window. Fifteen minutes later, they were at the Essex House.

Inside, they were shown up to their suite. It had two bedrooms and overlooked Central Park. There was a living room with a fireplace and a baby grand piano. One bedroom held two beds, the other sported the largest bed Musetta had ever seen. Of all the wonders that appeared before her that night, the enormous bed in Connie Del Barba’s room stood out. 

‘So, what do you think, honey?’ asked Connie.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like a movie,’ said Musetta.

‘Take your coat off,’ said Sandy. ‘You’re bunking with me. Did you take a gander out the window?’

Musetta walked to the window and pulled back the drapes and then the fine lace curtain behind that. Lights, as far as she could see, outlined an enormous blackness, right in the middle of the island.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Musetta, confounded by the immensity of an unexpected darkness bounded by the city.

‘Central Park. We’ll go for a walk tomorrow morning, if you’d like,’ suggested Sandy Urquhart. ‘It’s got a zoo, lake, restaurants. Pretty amazing.’

‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Musetta. She was clearly fit to burst – joyful, nervous, and eager all at once. 

‘I think we all need a drink,’ said Connie, who then walked over to a cabinet on the wall next to the fireplace. The top of the cabinet flipped back, doors opened, and a glass and chrome interior expanded into the room. ‘Sandy, why don’t you get some ice? Down the hall. Here,’ said Connie, handing an ice bucket. ‘Sorry. I should have told them I wanted ice.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Sandy as she left.

‘Look, Musetta. New York is pretty overwhelming the first time. I know. I think Sandy probably felt the same way, too. Three little girls from Barrachois in the big city. It’s fun and it’s crowded, so keep tight to us. But crowds are just people, right?’ asked Connie.

‘I’m not scared,’ said Musetta. ‘I’ll be okay.’

‘Good girl. But don’t pretend you know what’s going on, either. Ask if you don’t know,’ said Connie. ‘I’m having a rum and coke. Whaddaya want?’

‘Oh, just a Coke, please,’ said Musetta, relaxing a little. ‘I’ve never been anywhere like this before.’

‘Pretty swish, eh? Well, a suite works out cheaper than three rooms, let me tell you. And if we’re gonna do some business, it’ll impress,’ said Connie.

‘That’s important, then. To impress,’ said Musetta.

‘Never, never talk about how good you are. Let them figure it out for themselves. But a little quiet intimidation goes a long way. Like a suite at the Essex House,’ grinned Connie, handing a bottle of Coke to Musetta. ‘Church key’s in the cabinet somewhere. Right. Ice!’ said Connie as Sandy returned. 

They then began to plan the next day. 

The next morning, the three women boarded the glass-roofed Manhattan Tour Bus at its stop on Columbus Circle. They sat for a few minutes, and then left at the appointed hour, heading east along the park before turning north. Musetta was agog at everything, from the traffic to the crowds to the glass roof of the bus to the sights she had only ever heard about in magazines or in the movies. Sandy had lived in New York for a time during the war, so her fun was watching Musetta. Connie dozed a lot, but perked up in Harlem and when the bus rolled along 52nd Street.

‘We’re coming here, girls. Jazz joints on 52nd. And Harlem. I’m auditioning acts. And I want your opinion,’ said Connie. ‘Hey, miss,’ she called to the guide, dressed in a bright yellow uniform. ‘This bus go down 5th Avenue? I want to get off at 36th.’

‘Well, ma’am, we don’t actually have a stop right there, but we do stop right at 34th, if that’s okay.’

‘Perfect. I can still manage a coupla blocks,’ said Connie. 

While Sandy and Musetta were riding the elevators to the top of the Empire State Building, Connie Del Barba was in the eighth-floor offices of Universal Attractions Agency and her appointment with Benny, who turned out to be the owner, Ben Bart. Connie was admitted to his office, dropped her fur coat on the back of a chair, and sat, facing an empty desk. In less than a minute, Ben Bart entered from a side door and stopped, dead in his tracks. Whatever the young man had expected, it was not a skinny, elderly woman wearing cherry-red lipstick, false eyelashes, and an electric blue New Look dress. 

‘I’m Connie Del Barba. I guess you’re Ben Bart, since your name’s on the door,’ said Connie, fishing for her box of Sweet Caporals in her purse. ‘You’re pretty young.’

Ben gallantly lit Connie’s cigarette. She blew a smoke ring at him. ‘Not much of an agent if you can’t talk,’ said Connie.

‘I have a feeling I won’t need to say much,’ said Bart. ‘But let me lay it out. You’ve bought a hotel. You want acts. It’s in Cape Breton, so tourism is strongest in summer – June, July, August. Maybe September when the leaves change colour. You’re working with some other hotels. Probably along the Cabot Trail. You’re thinking if you can get a package deal, you can get a better price,’ said Bart.

‘Well, that saved time. Whaddaya got for me?’ asked Connie.

‘You said jazz, so, I’ve got some good people. Dinah Washington. Ink Spots. You know Aznavour and Roche? Frenchmen. Pop. Quite a range,’ said Bart.

‘Good. I know the Ink Spots. Aznavour and Roche from a couple of records,’ said Connie.

‘Popular in Canada,’ said Bart.

‘I want a mix. Jazz, pop, folk, R&B. I’ve got country and fiddle music comin’ outta my whoozit. There are a lot of Americans who moved to Barrachois over the last thirty years. Lots of folks from the Caribbean, too. The Gramercy’s got to be a place for everyone, I figure, if it’s gonna make a go,’ said Connie, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling.

‘It’s in a Black neighbourhood. You think you’ll get white customers?’ asked Bart.

‘You did your homework. I’ve got enough money to pull down a few walls, if that’s what you’re wondering. The acts’ll get paid,’ said Connie.

‘How can I be sure?’ asked Bart.

‘What my lawyers call surety. I figured you’d be cautious. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be doing your best for your clients, now would you? A bond. Up front, held in escrow and me getting interest if the bond isn’t touched,’ said Connie.

‘Can’t say better than that. There’s a new club opening on the fifteenth. You here then?’ asked Bart. ‘Calling it Birdland. On 52nd Street. Breaking down a few barriers, too,’ grinned Bart.

‘Can you get me a table?’ asked Connie. ‘I’ve got someone with me I want people to hear. A singer. She loves opera, but she’s got a great voice for just about anything. Maybe end of the evening?’ 

‘You didn’t say anything about getting her on the bill,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Not on the bill. Just a number. Between acts, maybe. She’s good and I’m not an idiot. Fair enough?’ asked Connie, standing and reaching for her coat. ‘I’ll let you know how many people are coming. Four. Maybe six.’

Ben Bart stood and helped her on with her fox coat. ‘You know, Connie, I have a feeling you might just make a go of the Gramercy.’

‘Bet your ass, honey,’ she said and left the room. 

Connie was fidgeting, something she rarely did, unless she was forced to wait for something. Finally, Sandy and Musetta walked into the lobby of the Universal Attractions building. 

‘What, were you memorizing the view? Come on, we’ve got somebody waiting for us,’ she said and then hustled the other two women out onto the street and into the first cab that stopped. ‘Osborne Building,’ barked Connie. ‘And step on it.’ She turned and grinned at Sandy Urquhart. ‘Always wanted to say that.’

‘We’ll be there in lots of time, Connie. The General has the whole day clear, he said,’ assured Sandy.

‘Good. Well, it’s the others I’m worried about,’ said Connie.

Musetta was oblivious to their conversation, which was likely just as well. Questions would have meant answers and answers would have made her nervous. Just now, she was supremely happy, staring out the window, trying to fix in memory the traffic, the crowds, and the Christmas decorations along 6th Avenue. Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of an enormous brownstone apartment building: The Osborne.

Sandy paid the driver and the three women went inside, through its dark Florentine lobby of russet marble with intricate inlays, its coffered ceilings, gildings, Tiffany mosaics, and Romanesque arches. Sandy had to practically push a nearly paralytic Musetta toward the western elevators. Sandy asked for the ninth floor and the operator obliged. When the elevator doors opened again, there were only two apartment entrances to be seen. Sandy walked to the one on the right and rang the bell. In a moment, Jack Torrance was standing in his doorway, arms wide.

‘Come in, come in. I’m so pleased to see you and for stopping in on an aged relic. Sandy, dear, you remember Winters?’ asked the General by way of introducing his batman to the three women.

‘I do. Good to see you, Private,’ said Sandy.

‘Nice to see you again, Major. Please, ladies, let me take your coats,’ said Winters, who disappeared only to reappear a few moments later from an entirely different direction, pushing a tea trolley loaded with sandwiches and little cakes. The living room was large, with high ceilings, windows that looked southward, and in a corner, a grand piano.

‘Sit, please. We have time for a little refreshment before Helen and Lenny pop in. You went sight-seeing, I hope?’ asked Torrance, who sat after the ladies took their places in comfortable armchairs arranged around the fireplace.

‘Oh, yes. It’s a little overwhelming…’ Musetta trailed off.

‘Thrown into the cultural deep end. I get it. It’ll help to remember that what is astonishing about Manhattan is what most New Yorkers try not to think about. They just have to get on with things,’ said Jack Torrance, handing out plates to his guests. ‘Please, help yourselves. So, Mrs. Del Barba, I hear you’re a hotelier, now.’

‘Connie. Just Connie. And I’ll call you Jack. Enough of this general stuff,’ said Connie.

‘Quite right,’ said Jack, smiling. ‘The hotel?’

‘On the waterfront. Barrington Quay. Great location near the railway and the docks –- tourists everywhere. Being a hotel’s not enough. I need great entertainment,’ said Connie.

‘And make the hotel a destination in itself,’ said Sandy. ‘Musetta and her brothers are going to be regular performers. Pop music, mostly.’

‘Not opera?’ asked Torrance, who knew Musetta’s reputation.

‘Once in a while,’ said Connie, jumping in. ‘Opera’s never gonna pack ’em in. But we’ll do it. We don’t discriminate. About anything. Lots of new people in Barrachois from the Caribbean, from the States. They’ll come to us if they feel welcome. And they damn well will in my hotel. Everybody. No whites-only crap, not like what they did to that poor woman in New Glasgow. What the hell kind of world are we living in? Sorry. Soap box,’ said Connie.

‘Quite right,’ said Torrance.

‘And, if we want people as customers, we gotta give them what everybody wants. Jazz. Rhythm and Blues. Pop,’ said Connie. ‘Great performers. Names people want to hear.’

The doorbell rang and Winters appeared again, walking briskly past them to open the door. ‘Please come in,’ said Winters, and he ushered in a tall, red-headed woman of middle age, accompanied by a slightly shambling dark-haired young man. The woman, introduced as Helen, was clearly a happy soul, with an enthusiastic smile and great warmth. The young man, identified only as Lenny, was quiet and seemed slightly aggrieved for some reason.

‘Connie,’ began General Torrance, ‘Helen here is thinking of launching herself into a nightclub career. She’s been on stage for a long time, but this would be a kind of solo act for her. I was hoping you might be interested in hearing her sing.’

‘Sure thing. More power to ya, honey. Trying to start a new career now. Me too, and I’ve got a few more miles on the clock than you do,’ said Connie.

Helen laughed, throwing back her head. Everything she did was loose, unfettered. ‘Come on, Lenny. You’re going to play for me,’ said Helen, walking over to the piano. ‘How about “Some Other Time”?’

‘You bet,’ said Lenny. He sat down, opened the piano and played a four-bar intro. Helen seemed suddenly grounded, sinking into herself. A powerful rich voice filled the room, a voice with sweet top notes and an astonishing lower register of great warmth. She reached the chorus and sang with compelling longing:

Where has the time all gone to?
Haven’t done half the things we want to.
Oh, well, we’ll catch up
Some other time.

Musetta rose to her feet and stood in the middle of the room. She faced the piano, rapt, until Helen ended her piece. 

‘Wow,’ said Connie.

‘Like a little girl. Like sad, lonely woman. Oh, miss. That was just wonderful,’ said Musetta.

‘Thanks, honey. And you too, Lenny. Great work,’ said Helen, beaming.

Lenny actually cracked a smile. 

‘Musetta here sings, too,’ said Jack Torrance.

‘Oh, General, please, no,’ began Musetta.

‘Musetta? That’s your name?’ asked Helen.

‘Dadda loved opera. He named my brothers Rodolfo and Marcello. Well, Rolly and Marc’s what they get,’ said Musetta, blushing. ‘We all sing a little. They don’t sing opera, though.’

‘But you do? Oh, how wonderful,’ said Helen, enthusiastically. ‘What could we listen to?

They discussed options. Lenny knew a couple of Musetta’s favourites, ‘Quando me’n vo’ from La Bohème and ‘Marietta’s Lied’ from Die Tote Stadt. Helen settled it for them. ‘The Korngold,’ she pronounced. ‘Not done nearly enough.’

Lenny understood the music perfectly – the joy of finding love, the knowledge gained that all of life is so transitory. With the last notes came resignation and hope intermingled.

Mußt du einmal von mir gehn,

glaub, es gibt ein Auferstehn.

In the silence that followed, General Torrance translated: ‘If you must leave me one day,
trust there is a resurrection.’

Helen applauded and even Lenny nodded approval. 

‘Sing “Nature Boy,” honey,’ said Connie. ‘Come over here, Lenny, and have a sandwich. She does this all on her own.’

When Musetta finished, Helen came over from where she was sitting and gave Musetta a big hug. ‘My word, young woman. You have a gift. I honestly don’t know which way you should jump. Do you sing for a living?’

‘I work in a diner. Waitress, miss,’ said Musetta. 

‘Good for you. Singing and eating. My favourite things, as you can tell. So, what do you think, Lenny?’ asked Helen.

‘Take her to see his nibs. He’ll tell you,’ said Lenny. ‘It was really nice to play for you, Musetta. A pleasure. But I’ve got to run. Excuse me. See ya, Mr. Torrance.’ 

Winters appeared magically to open the door. Connie called to Lenny: ‘Hey, we’re going to an opening of a new jazz club on the fifteenth. I’ve got a table. Wanna come? You can walk from here.’

Lenny thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Sure, sounds fun. How about you, Helen?’

Helen looked to Connie who replied, ‘The more the merrier. I’m booking acts. I’d value your opinions. I’m not walking though. We’ll pick you up.’

Lenny stopped at the door and turned to Torrance: ‘Are you really a general? Cripes.’ He then left without waiting for the reply.

Helen headed for the door. ‘I think I’ll go to the club late, if it’s okay with you. All that smoke’s not good for me. And since turnabout’s fair play, I’ll get you girls some tickets for my matinee on the seventeenth. The Metropolitan. Get there early. Say, just after noon at the stage door? There’s someone you should meet. Another Canadian, actually. Talk about an invisible menace. They’re everywhere. See you, General. Geez, you’re one, too!’

‘I am,’ replied Torrance with a big grin. ‘Stealthy, aren’t we?’

‘Ha!’ snorted Helen. ‘This was fun. I’m glad you asked.’

Connie and Musetta then left to walk the few blocks to the Essex House. After Winters made a discreet disappearance, Sandy Urquhart faced her old boss squarely.

‘I don’t like that look, Sandy,’ said Torrance.

‘I have some serious questions for you, Jack Torrance. And no wiggling, right?’ demanded Sandy Urquhart.

‘I don’t even know if I can wiggle at my age,’ said Torrance.

‘No comedy. No evasion. Now, you sold your parents’ house to my husband’s Mum and Dad. You were my boss all the way through the war. The Urquharts and the MacDonalds lived a thousand miles apart – you knew both families. What gives?’ asked Sandy.

‘Jimmy was convinced by a friend in his prisoner-of-war camp that becoming a cop might be a good idea and he – Buck Coleman, that is – just happened to be from your home town. What’s so odd about that?’ asked Torrance, sweetly.

‘I don’t like coincidences. Before Jimmy moved to Barrachois, you already had a connection with him and me. That’s the coincidence. How did you come to know Jimmy?’ asked Sandy.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ asked Torrance. ‘I told him.’

‘Did you swear him to secrecy or something? You’re good at that,’ said Sandy.

‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell him absolutely everything, so he’s probably trying to figure out the rest. Oh, Sandy dear, it all started so long ago. Over sixty years and in a different world,’ he said, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. ‘I was wounded in a battle in Egypt in eighteen hundred and eighty-two. When I woke up, I was lying next to a dying man, a young man, early thirties. Name of Rutherford. Ned Rutherford. He asked my name, and it turns out his wife had been a Torrance. No relation, just a simple coincidence. We got to talking. He had two girls and he feared for them. His wife was dead and if he didn’t make it, they’d be put in an orphanage. The girls were older, not the kids loving couples want to adopt. They were the sort who would be adopted because they’d make for cheap labour.’

‘Home children, sort of thing,’ said Sandy.

‘Exactly. Well, Ned Rutherford survived the night, but barely. He died in my arms just at dawn. It’s amazing, my dear, how you can grow close to someone so quickly. He was a good man, agonizing about his girls. I promised him, really promised him, that I would find them and make sure they were safe. Their names were Jane and Alice.’

‘Oh, my. Jane Rutherford. Jimmy’s grandmother. Her maiden name,’ said Sandy.

‘That’s right. I did find them and arranged for a very nice family to adopt them. They grew up happy and Jane got married and had a daughter, June. June grew up happy and got married to some guy named Urquhart and they had a son named Jimmy,’ said Torrance. ‘Who missed the boat and married some pushy journalist named Sandy but who went by the name of Notepad.’

‘And you’ve been looking after them all these years,’ said Sandy. ‘Do they know?’

‘Jane and Alice found out. I guess from their adoptive mother and father. They’ve known since the twenties, at least. I told Jimmy just after Little Jack’s christening,’ said Torrance.

‘And so, all these people were like the children you never had,’ said Sandy.

Torrance suddenly misted up. ‘I had a son. His name was John. He did not live long.’

‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. I had no idea,’ said Sandy.

‘Oh, it’s fine now. But it’s been a long life without him,’ said the General, rising. ‘I think I’ve answered enough questions for one afternoon.’

‘And you’re still helping people. Like Musetta,’ said Sandy.

‘Oh, that’s all Connie Del Barba. It was good of you to give her my phone number. She’s hard to say “no” to, I must say. It took a little convincing to get Helen and Lenny involved, but I think they were pleasantly surprised. And this is a good thing to do,’ said Torrance. ‘Do you think it will give her a push?’

‘To sing professionally? I don’t know. She could never make a living at it in Barrachois. She needs a bigger stage. Maybe here,’ mused Sandy. ‘Connie will be shoving. She shoved you.’

‘True. Now, get out of here. You’ve wormed enough out of me and I want a nap,’ said Torrance as he walked Sandy towards the door. ‘Winters!’ he called.

‘You doing anything for Christmas?’ asked Sandy. ‘Like to come up?’

‘No. It’s a time for family. Besides, I’m getting too old for all the travelling,’ said the General. ‘I’ll be ninety in the New Year.’

Sandy regarded him. He was a good friend. He was still her boss. He had been her teacher. It was hard to fathom that, one day, Jack Torrance wouldn’t be there. It had never occurred to her before. She gulped a little, then asked: ‘When is your birthday? Come on, no hemming and hawing. I could phone Mrs. Oliver, you know. Or Bill Stephenson.’

‘The first,’ he said with a hiss.

‘You mean New Year’s Day? A New Year’s baby?’ laughed Sandy.

‘I’m about as far from a baby as any human can get. Now, go. Winters? See the lady out,’ said Jack. He gave Sandy a peck on her forehead and retreated out of sight.

Winters appeared, fetched and held Sandy’s coat for her. He made a tentative little cough. ‘Major?’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘I heard what you said. I think you should know: the General needs company. He’s been so happy, looking forward to seeing you. Make sure he goes up to Barrachois,’ said Winters. ‘Unless he’s working, and that doesn’t happen so much anymore, we just rattle around. Four empty bedrooms back there. Like a tomb. Lonely. Not good for him.’

‘You’re a good man, Private Winters. I’ll do my best,’ said Sandy.

Sandy left the Osborne and turned the corner onto Seventh Avenue to head up to the Essex House; she stopped in front of a little diner with the highly aspirational name of La Parisienne. It was in no way French and in no way luxe. But it was hosting a birthday party that afternoon, and everybody – a little girl, parents, grandparents, friends – seemed to be having a ball. Birthday party, thought Sandy. That’s a thought. Ninety is a milestone, after all. Sandy stared into La Parisienne as the little girl began to open her presents. What on earth could I give Jack Torrance he hasn’t had ten times over? By the time she had got back to the hotel, she needed to talk to Connie. She had the pieces, but didn’t know if it was even possible.

‘So where do these old broads live?’ asked Connie, sucking on a rum-and-coke.

‘Miami. Jane’s a widow and Alice never married. I’ve never met either one and I don’t think Jimmy’s seen them since before he shipped out in forty-two,’ said Sandy.

‘Well, you’re gonna have to talk to them, that’s for sure,’ said Connie.

‘I’ll get their phone number from June Urquhart. But I don’t even know if it’s possible to do this!’ said Sandy in some mild frustration. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m being stupid.’

‘Well, there’s just one person in Barrachois I’d call if I wanted that kind of advice. I’ve heard of it happening, but you want to know for sure,’ said Connie. ‘Call him. He’ll still be in his office.’

Sandy opened her purse and pulled out a tiny black book. ‘You think I should?’

‘Whaddaya got to lose? Give the old bastard a call,’ said Connie.

Sandy placed a call through the hotel operator and in a moment a woman’s voice came on the line. Sandy cleared her throat – it was long distance, after all – and made her request. In another moment, a man’s voice said ‘Hello?’ 

‘Napier?’ asked Sandy. ‘I need some advice.’

On the fifteenth, Ben Bart arrived at the Essex House in a limo, then he and the three women picked up the General and Lenny and headed for opening night at Birdland. 52nd Street was buzzing. A doorman checked invitations and a small man in white tie and tailcoat showed the Bart party to a table just two away from the stage.

‘If you need anything, Mr. Bart, just shout for PeeWee,’ said the man, who turned out to be the club’s emcee.

The room was larger than it first appeared. The stage was draped in red and white striped curtains. Barriers between tables allowed waiters to pass easily with drinks. From the ceiling hung birdcages, plated brass, housing live canaries.

‘I thought this was all about Charlie Parker,’ said Lenny, pointing to the canaries. ‘Guess it’s not his club.’

‘They’ll be dead before you know it,’ said Connie laconically. ‘I come from coal country. Canaries and smoke don’t mix.’

‘Charlie doesn’t have two beans. Moish Levy and a bunch of his friends bought the place from Joe-the-Wop Catalano. No offence, Mrs. Del Barba,’ said Ben Bart.

‘I’m not Italian. I just married one,’ said Connie, lighting a smoke.

‘There’s Moish now. Hey, Morris!’ called Bart. ‘This is Connie Del Barba. She’s booking acts in Canada. Be nice, right?’

‘Of course. Nice to meet you. Anything I can do, just ask,’ said Moish Levy. 

‘You’re on. This is Musetta. She’s a great singer and this is Lenny. Her accompanist,’ said Connie.

Moish Levy stopped and turned to say hello, but he froze. ‘Her accompanist?’

‘Can you give her a spot tonight? Any time. Just a couple of numbers,’ said Connie.

Moish Levy turned to Lenny. ‘On the level?’

‘On the level,’ said Lenny. 

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ began Musetta.

‘You’ve played bigger houses than this. Show them how it’s done,’ said Sandy.

‘Let me tell PeeWee. What’s her name?’ asked Moish. ‘Okay. Just after Belafonte and before Dinah, okay? We have to reset then anyhow.’

The evening was fun and business. Connie, sitting next to Ben Bart, talked about the talent and the money. For those acts he didn’t handle – like Charlie Parker and Stan Getz – he offered to make introductions. She’s gonna find out anyhow, so I might as well look like the good guy, thought Bart.

‘He’s some cute,’ said Connie when Harry Belafonte came on stage. ‘What did PeeWee call him? It’s getting so damn loud in here.’

‘Harry Belafonte. Caribbean stuff. He’s good,’ said Bart.

Connie made a note and then looked up to see Helen pushing through the crowd toward the table. Bart and the General stood. Helen smiled, sat, and ordered a bourbon. Bart was open-mouthed for the second time that night. 

‘Did you get her on the bill?’ asked Helen.

‘Up next, Miss,’ said Ben Bart.

Belafonte was backed by the Charlie Parker band, and when they finished the set, PeeWee sauntered on stage and announced a last-minute addition – a girl singer named Zetta Barrel.

‘I think he means me,’ said Musetta. 

‘PeeWee is terrible with names,’ confided Bart. ‘Unless you tip him.’ 

‘‘Do I go up? What’ll I do?’ asked Musetta, totally unprepared.

Lenny took her by the hand. ‘Sing “Nature Boy,” just the way you did in the apartment. Without me. But also something contrasting. Up tempo. You know “Exactly Like You”?’ 

‘Sure.’

‘We’ll do that first,’ said Lenny, sitting at the piano. The crowd, loud a moment before, was suddenly quiet. Lenny looked at Musetta, more nervous than ever because of the silence. ‘Smile, sweetie. Remember, they want to love you. I’ll count you in.’

There were roars of approval and then Lenny turned around on the piano bench and just nodded at Musetta. ‘Single spot,’ he hollered.

Musetta filled the room with ‘Nature Boy.’ She filled the room with wonder. She took it slowly, dominating the story. When she sang the final two lines: ‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn / Is just to love and be loved in return,’ the room was still and silent. Then came the wild applause.

Lenny led Musetta back to the table to cheers. 

Ben Bart leaned toward Connie. ‘That’s your anchor, right there, Mrs. Del Barba.’

‘I know, honey. But she needs to be famous here before she’s loved at home,’ replied Connie.

Helen leaned in toward Musetta and Connie and squeezed her hand. ‘One down. One to go. You were spectacular, darling. I’ve got to get out of here, Mrs. Del Barba, the smoke’s too much. See you day after tomorrow at The Met.’

Two days later, after visits to Harlem and the Village, Connie, Musetta, and Sandy were standing in the cold outside the stage door of the Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway. The stage door suddenly banged open from inside and Helen waved them in.

‘Get in, get in. It’s freezing out there. Oh. I thought the General was coming. He knows Eddie Johnson. Never mind. Let’s go. He’s waiting,’ said Helen, who led them past the stage doorman, down a long passage to a pair of elevators. There was no operator, so Helen pushed seven on the panel and up they went. 

The door of the General Manager’s office was open and they walked into reception. ‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ said the receptionist. ‘Mr. Johnson is expecting you. Please go in.’

They found a handsome man in late middle age behind a large mahogany desk. The windows of his office looked north, up toward Times Square. The man rose and extended his hand. ‘Edward Johnson. So nice to meet you,’ he said. He had a strong, well-modulated voice and a robust physique.

Helen made the introductions and then took her leave. ‘Sorry, but I do have to get ready. There are tickets for you at the box office, under Del Barba,’ Helen smiled and said goodbye.

‘Helen speaks highly of you, Miss Burrell. She says you have a fine voice. Where did you train?’ asked Johnson.

‘I haven’t really trained seriously. Some voice lessons from a lady in Barrachois and I got a lot of help from the choir mistress at church, but that’s been about it. Formally, I mean. My Dadda loved opera and we listened to the radio and to records all the time. I sang along,’ she admitted shyly.

Edward Johnson laughed. ‘So do I,’ he confided. ‘Okay. You ready to give it a go? I’ll play if you like.’ He walked to a piano near the window. ‘I’m not great, but I sort of know these,’ he suggested, handing Musetta some sheet music.

‘How about “Laggiù nel Soledad” from La Fanciulla?’ suggested Musetta.

‘Interesting choice. Ladies, please take a seat. Forgive my playing, Miss Burrell. I’m ready when you are,’ said Eddie Johnson.

When Musetta had finished, the General Manager of the Metropolitan Opera House turned to regard her. ‘I sang in Fanciulla Del West back when the earth was still cooling. Poor Minnie – this is her big number and it’s not really very appealing, is it?’

‘No, sir,’ said Musetta. ‘I wanted to show you I could handle it.’

‘You did very well. You have a good voice, but if you are intent on a career in opera – and I think you might have one – you’ll need some good training. Very good, in fact, but only because you already know a great deal,’ said Johnson.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Musetta.

‘Don’t look so sad. This is encouragement from someone who’s been in your shoes. A church singer from Guelph, Ontario, in fact. Singing small concerts. Recitals here and there. Moved here to study. Toured a little, if you call a handful of YMCAs a tour! I was a second-stringer on the bill, but I eventually earned  enough money to go to Europe to train some more. I was in my twenties, so you can do it, Musetta,’ said Johnson.

‘How long for?’ asked Connie.

‘An important question. The simple answer is three or four years. The complex answer is you never stop. Opera is a gruelling life and you need good training to survive it. If you want it, I am telling you that you can do it. But you have to want it,’ said Johnson.

‘Never heard of you. Were you any good?’ asked Connie.

Johnson laughed hard and long. ‘Not as good as some said. But I was okay. I was fit and masculine and an adequate singer. If you want to know the truth, I think I got a lot of jobs because I looked good in tight trousers. Weren’t many of us then. Still aren’t,’ he grinned. ‘I didn’t sing as Eddie Johnson. I was Edoardo di Giovanni. You were nothing if you weren’t Italian back around 1910.’

‘Yeah, I went Italian, too. No singing involved, though,’ laughed Connie. ‘Well, thanks, Mr. Johnson. We’ve taken enough of your time.

Musetta extended her hand. ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ replied Johnson. ‘If Helen says you’re a star in the making, I listen.’

‘Miss Traubel has been so generous,’ said Musetta. 

Edward Johnson turned to Connie Del Barba. ‘I thought she wasn’t supposed to know who Helen was?’

‘News to me,’ said Connie. She turned to Musetta: ‘How long have you known?’

‘Recognized her right away. Dadda subscribed to Opera News. It was nice of you and the General. You thought I’d be nervous, right? So you just called her Helen. And Mr. Bernstein you called Lenny.’

‘Leonard Bernstein?’ asked Johnson.

‘Yep. He played piano for me at the Birdcage opening. Went pretty well, too,’ said Musetta, simply.

Connie Del Barba explained. ‘Helen Traubel and Leonard Bernstein are neighbours of Jack Torrance. The General likes to help.’

‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Eddie Johnson. ‘You’ve got great people in your corner, Miss Burrell. Make sure you remember that when you’re making up your mind.’

Three days later, after more jazz outings and one more performance at The Metropolitan Opera, Musetta, Sandy, and Connie were sitting in the Terrace Observation Lounge at La Guardia, waiting for the morning plane to Boston and their connections back to Barrachois.

‘Did you get what you wanted, Connie?’ asked Sandy.

‘More than I can handle. Bart and his cronies are sending along publicity stuff. I’ll go over it with the other hotel keepers and we’ll see if we can figure out some sort of circuit this summer. Could be great. Could lose my shirt,’ said Connie. ‘And you don’t want to see that, girls. Not at your age.’

Sandy snorted her coffee and Musetta just looked embarrassed. ‘This has been an amazing trip, Mrs. Del Barba. Thank you for including me.’

‘Neat people, eh?’ prompted Connie.

‘And my very first opera. At The Met, of all places. Invited by Helen Traubel. Helen, I get to call her,’ beamed Musetta.

‘You’ve got a lot to think about, don’t you? Some pretty smart people were pretty damned impressed,’ said Connie.

‘So, it’s really up to me, isn’t it? Do I want it or not?’ asked Musetta.

The Urquhart house was full. Jimmy’s parents, June and Allen Urquhart, were there from Ontario. Jimmy’s grandmother, Jane, and his great-aunt Alice had flown up three days before Christmas from Florida, courtesy of Allen Urquhart. By Christmas morning, Jane and Alice had recovered from their travels and were up with the nuns, making noise in the kitchen.

Sandy leaned against the kitchen door post. ‘What are you doing up so early?’ she asked sleepily. The clock over the sink read 5.30 AM.

‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry. We were trying to be quiet. We thought we’d make some cinnamon rolls for the morning. Around the tree, you know,’ said Jane, her hands covered in flour and dough. She was white-haired, with a dumpling face, and an indelible Edinburgh accent.

‘Okay. Good. I thought … oh, never mind. I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit,’ said Sandy and she headed for the stairs. 

She could hear the two old women giggling together as she went up. I don’t think I’m impressing them, she thought and her heart fell. There was so much riding on them. Jane and Alice left Miami and came to Barrachois. First hurdle cleared. They listened attentively to her proposition; they somehow found her alone for a few minutes on Christmas Eve, came up to her shyly, and said ‘Yes, we will.’ Second hurdle. They were in and Sandy was over the moon. 

That was just last night. So, why am I so nervous now? she thought. Sandy did not go back to bed. She had a shower, dressed, and got Little Jack up, changed, and dressed. Jimmy was inert on their bed. Sandy knew he was playing possum, but she needed allies, so she didn’t press the matter. She took Little Jack down to the kitchen where his great-grandmother and great-great aunt were cleaning up. Alice took the baby.

‘Oh, he’s a bonny thing,’ said Alice, dandling the child. ‘Can I feed him, dear?’

‘You never have to ask that twice,’ joked Sandy. The two old women laughed and Sandy felt a little better. ‘Shall I make coffee?’

‘We’ve got a pot of tea, so not for us, but thank you,’ said Jane. 

‘The cinnamon rolls smell wonderful,’ said Sandy. 

‘Lovely things, fresh and warm. Shall I get out cookies and squares and so on? Maybe make some cocoa. I know June and Allen like cocoa on Christmas morning,’ said Alice.

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Sandy.

‘Sandy, dear. Does June know about your plan?’ asked Jane.

‘I told her last night after you said it was okay. I’m surprised you didn’t hear her squealing, she was so happy,’ said Sandy.

‘Can we get it done?’ asked Jane, suddenly worried. ‘I mean, it’s only a week away and how do we make it all official? Everything’s closed.’

‘I made a call last night. I have a friend,’ said Sandy. ‘She’ll get it done if anyone can.’

‘It isn’t that Mrs. Del Barba character, is it? I don’t know about her,’ said Alice.

‘Don’t let Connie put off. She’s solid gold and plated with brass. She took us to New York, you know. None of this would have happened otherwise,’ said Sandy.

‘Well, I never,’ said Alice. ‘She so doesn’t seem the type.’

‘But she is. Outside of my sister, I think Connie’s become my closest friend,’ said Sandy, suddenly surprised by her own admission. ‘She’s the real deal.’

‘If I misjudged this Connie woman, maybe I’m misjudging everything,’ said Alice, worriedly plucking at the wrapper she wore over her day dress.

‘And what have you always said to me? If you have a chance to make someone happy, take it. And that’s what we’re doing,’ said Jane, laying a soft white hand on her sister’s wrist.

‘All right, enough of that, or the baby won’t be the only one bawling. Let’s get this little monster fed, shall we?’ asked Sandy.

Sunday and Christmas. It was as close to picture perfect as anyone in their right mind could expect. Thick snow and quiet outside aside from the bells. Presents were opened and church attended. No curses were uttered (except by Jimmy in response to a recalcitrant turkey leg that refused disarticulation); no bottles flew (although Allen Urquhart loosed a champagne cork that nearly broke a window); no food was flung (except by Little Jack). In fact, the only trouble was entirely masculine in origin.

Boxing Day was a moment of rest and recovery. Because Christmas had fallen on the Sunday and Monday was Boxing Day, the stores were closed for statutory holidays until Wednesday. While Jimmy and Allen loafed, June Urquhart led the others on an escape to Main Street, starting with the ladies’ side of McKellar’s clothing store. This retail adventure continued on Thursday and Friday, until the arrival of General Torrance.

Friday was the 30th of December, perilously close to New Year’s Eve and the Hogmanay celebrations that Barrachois was famed for. In Jimmy’s study, he and the General sat either side of a drinks table, decorated with tinsel, and bearing a bowl filled with humbugs, French crèmes, and ribbon candies.

‘Connie Del Barba is a force to be reckoned with,’ said Torrance to Jimmy Urquhart. ‘I told her I just wanted a quiet holiday, but she wasn’t having any of it. “How many holiday seasons do you think you’ve got left, you old bugger,” she said to me. “You’re going to miss that godson of yours. You owe him, Jack Torrance. Care and guidance – they’re your duty,” said Connie. As if I can give care and guidance to a baby,’ snorted the General, taking a French crème. 

‘I’m glad you came, sir,’ said Jimmy handing Torrance a drink. Allen Urquhart walked in. ‘I was just saying how good it was to see the General.’

‘Absolutely. And apparently, there’s a big Hogmanay thing happening at the Gramercy. Connie’s got something cooked up, and she wants as many dark-haired men to enter by the front door as possible,’ said Allen, pulling over a chair. ‘Hey, humbugs.’

‘Well, I might have been dark at one time,’ said Jack Torrance. ‘And I’m not entirely sure you qualify anymore either, Allen.’

‘Just watch it. I can still carry it off,’ said the elder Urquhart. 

‘With strong backlight,’ said Jimmy, to snorts and chuckles.

As the three men fell to discussing the merits of whisky with candies, Scottish first-footing, coal and bread and salt, Alice and Jane were huddled with Sandy Urquhart in the dining room.

‘So, Allen and Jimmy still don’t know?’ asked Jane, incredulously.

‘Nothing to do with them, I figured,’ said Sandy.

‘Well, good for you. Your plan, after all,’ said Alice. ‘You got what you needed?’

‘This morning. Came by special courier to our lawyer, straight from Halifax,’ replied Sandy, her voice lowered.

‘How on earth did you manage it?’ asked Jane. ‘I thought it would take weeks.’

‘Friend in Ottawa. She knows everyone and she’s a pretty – shall I say – convincing sort of person. And, like she said, “Who could it possibly hurt?” She got on the horn to Halifax, and hey presto,’ said Sandy.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Jane. ‘Where is this going to happen?’

‘Connie Del Barba owns a local hotel. She’s going to have the dining room all set up for us. It’ll be in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve. We’ll have dinner, go for the torchlight walk down to the steel mill, and then head back to the hotel after midnight. We’ll spring it on him then,’ said Sandy.

‘Oh, dear. I hope he agrees,’ said Jane. ‘What’ll we do if he doesn’t?’

‘He will, Jane. I’ll see to that,’ said Sandy.

‘Who’s that young man who came with him?’ asked Alice.

‘Private Winters. His batman. The General’s still on active service,’ explained Sandy.

‘And he gets a kind of servant?’ asked Alice.

‘He’s as close to Winters as probably anybody else. Jack has really come to rely on him,’ said Sandy. ‘Winters will be at the dinner. And a friend of mine, Musetta Burrell. She’s going to sing.’

‘Good?’ asked Jane.

‘Extremely. We were in New York a week or so ago – and the General made sure some important people heard her sing,’ said Sandy.

Jane took a moment to digest this, and then said simply: ‘So, he’s still helping, isn’t he? I hope he understands what we’re doing.’

On New Year’s Eve, the whole clan was getting dressed for the party. Winters helped the General while being subjected to some unaccustomed grilling.

‘They’re not planning a birthday, party, are they? I see you talking to people, Winters. You’re up to something,’ accused Jack Torrance.

‘Please hold still, sir, it’s hard enough tying a black tie without you squirming,’ said Winters.

‘I don’t squirm. And don’t prevaricate, man,’ said the General.

‘No, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it. The event at the hotel today is a New Year’s Eve dinner, followed by a torch light parade…’ said Winters.

‘I’ve done that here before,’ interrupted Jack Torrance. ‘Damned cold thing at my age.’

‘I have a fur cap for you, a heavy great coat, and some fur-lined mitts. You’ll be fine. We go back to the hotel after the midnight countdown at the mill, have some drinks, blow some horns, and come back here,’ said Winters, stepping away to survey the tie.

‘You coming, in case?’ asked Torrance.

‘Major Urquhart insists I come. Even sit at table with you,’ said Winters, helping the General on with his scarlet mess jacket. 

‘I suppose I’ll be the only one in uniform,’ growled the General. ‘Hate standing out.’

‘I will wear my mess jacket,’ said Winters.

‘Well. All right, then,’ sniffed Jack Torrance.

At the Gramercy the wine flowed freely, the food was excellent, and Musetta and her brothers Roly and Marc provided the entertainment, accompanied by Pearl Evans on piano and her sons Lloyd and Floyd on guitars. Jimmy sat between his grandmother and great-aunt, eager to spend a little time with them. The days had flown and the time of their departure for Florida was fast approaching – in only two days’ time.

‘I feel like I’ve hardly seen you,’ said Jimmy.

‘Oh, I know, but you’re so busy, it’s not as if we can see each other very much. And Florida is so far away,’ said his grandmother, Jane.

‘I know, Nana. But I promise we’ll come down. Maybe in the summer,’ said Jimmy.

‘Why on earth would you come to Miami in the summer? Next winter, when it’s warm there and cold here. Make the most of your investment,’ said Alice. 

Jimmy promised and took their hands for a little squeeze. He said nothing, but in his mind was a dread that next winter could easily be too late. Such thoughts were becoming increasingly common. Their generation – the one he had always known – seemed suddenly old. Jimmy tried to fix their faces in memory, as one does when gripped by fear of what might come. It was not rational. All the same, it was powerful.

Connie was the hostess for the evening, and she had filled the dining room with familiar faces – Mr. Sowerby, the lawyer; Miss Anderson, the City Clerk; Colonel Walters, the Officer Commanding at the army base; Gladys Ferguson from the base; Buck Coleman, the Chief of Police; Doc Grandage; Sergeant MacDonald and his wife; the Hoegy brothers; Mr. and Mrs. Pauley. There was something niggling in Jimmy’s head. This was a particular set of people. Then he spotted Benjamin Drapeau and his wife – two people in that room that almost nobody knew. Jimmy made the connection.

He turned to his grandmother. ‘All these people. Jack Torrance was involved with them. Helped them. On a case of mine on the army base this year. What’s going on?’

Jane patted her grandson’s hand. ‘Oh, for any sake, James Urquhart. Can’t you stop being a copper for just one evening? Sit and listen to that lovely young woman.’

An hour later, the sun already set, the dining room emptied and everyone, bundled against a biting wind from the north, joined the torchlight parade to the steel mills. It was an act of defiance against the long winter night, a promise to keep the lights burning and to keep each other close in care. Hundreds of people formed a circle around the coke ovens, as they did every year. Every year, faces were reddened and scorched by the heat. Every year, hot faces retreated; colder faces advanced. And so it continued, everyone ebbing and flowing, everyone warmed and safe. At midnight, the bells of St. Thomas’s Church rang. As the last stroke of twelve echoed out and away over the harbour, Musetta began to sing “Auld Lang Syne,” softly, sweetly. Soon, everyone joined in unison, just as softly and just as sweetly. It was never loud and there was no hint of showiness. This was another promise. When the singing ended, people shook hands and hugged and began to move off. First footing would be starting and homeowners wanted to be ready to receive the dark-haired man on their threshold, carrying with him tokens of prosperity and good savour for the New Year.

The guests of Connie Del Barba headed for the Gramercy Hotel. Connie, Jack Torrance, Allen Urquhart, and Jimmy brought up the rear. The men knew their place. Connie was not to be crossed – the three of them, tall and at least formerly dark – would cross the threshold with coal, bread, and salt. Connie handed it to them as they reached the verandah of the hotel.

‘I’m going in. Give me thirty seconds, and then in you come. Got it?’ asked Connie.

‘Got it,’ said the General.

In half a minute, the three men entered the hotel and made for the dining room. They entered, but no cheers, no applause met them. In fact, no one spoke. They stood there, bread, coal, and salt in hand, looking totally perplexed at the silence of the room.

Jimmy and Sandy’s lawyer, Napier Sowerby, approached the General, followed closely by Jimmy’s family: Jane, Alice, June, Allen, Sandy, and even Little Jack, wide-eyed with wonder. Napier Sowerby handed Jack Torrance a legal instrument. ‘I understand that today is your birthday, General. This is your present.’

Torrance read the first page of the document and looked up. ‘I don’t understand…’

‘It’s really very simple, Jack,’ said Sandy Urquhart. ‘These are adoption papers. Approved by the court in Halifax. Signed by the two people to be adopted. Read the names, General.’

Torrance scanned the page and found the names of sisters Jane and Alice. Torrance looked up, still bewildered. ‘But how?’

‘Unusual, but perfectly legal. Slightly irregular in that the court approved the adoption before you knew anything about it, but some clever advocates had a hand in that,’ grinned Napier Sowerby.

‘Well?’ asked Jane.

‘Are you going to adopt us or not?’ asked Alice.

‘I don’t know how you found out about all of this, but…’ Torrance began, but then stopped and hugged the two women. 

The three of them snuffled back tears. Torrance broke free and took a pen from Connie. ‘Are you responsible?’ he demanded.

‘A little. Sandy Urquhart’s idea. Get a move on, you old bastard. You’re not getting any younger,’ said Connie. 

Torrance took the pen and signed. The cheers went up and before the General knew what was happening, he, Jane, Alice, June, Allen, Jimmy, Sandy, and Little Jack were being arranged for a photo to be taken by George Pauley, the police crime scene photographer.

‘Don’t normally get people standing up in my shots. Sort of nice for a change,’ said Pauley, to general laughter. 

Private Winters sidled up beside George Pauley and took a snap with a Polaroid camera. In a minute, he peeled back the image and handed it to the General. ‘Your family, sir.’

Jack Torrance had become, with a single signature and a lifetime of caring, a parent to Jane and Alice. A grandparent to June. A great-grandparent to Jimmy. And a great-great grandparent to Little Jack.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jack, quietly, as he stared at the Polaroid. ‘This is the greatest day of my life.’

There were tears and cheers and rivers of celebration flowed. Sandy took the General’s hand and said: ‘Happy Birthday, Gramps. And in case you didn’t know it before, family matters. So, you’ve got responsibilities.’

‘Ninety years old and a new father. Well, if that’s not one for the books,’ said Jack.

Over in the corner, seated next to the piano, was Musetta Burrell. She smiled, as did everyone in the room, but her cheeks trembled. Musetta was thinking of her brothers and of telling them she would be moving away, at least for a time. It frightened her. She would be alone, away from all of what Barrachois always gave her.

All her life she had put family first and now she wouldn’t. She had to try. She looked at General Torrance, holding Little Jack in his arms. Maybe it will work out for me, too, she thought. 

The End

Sandy Urquhart wanted the outdoor lights up for Christmas.

Sandy’s father had been the very first in the neighbourhood to put up electric lights – right across the whole porch of Finlaggan House – for Christmas in 1937. The lights had been the talk of the City of Barrachois.

After Sandy’s parents died in an accident a few months later, the lights languished in their pasteboard box in the basement. Sandy’s husband, Jimmy, was charged with hanging the lights for the first time in eleven years. Jimmy had plugged the lights in and, in something of a Christmas miracle, they all worked.

It was cold out and Jimmy put on a jacket and cap. He didn’t wear mitts or gloves because hanging Christmas lights was best done with bare hands, no matter how frozen they might become. Jimmy took a step ladder out on the porch, climbed up, unscrewed the light bulb in the porch light, and screwed in a socket adapter, into which he plugged an extension cord. He came down and moved his ladder, climbed up again, and pulled the extension cord tight to the corner beside the door. To his delight, he saw that there were already hooks on the outside of the beam that held up the porch roof. He descended to get the string of lights, then re-ascended the ladder, taking care not to bang the bulbs against anything. Balancing a little backwards, he could feel some discomfort in the small of his back. Jimmy hated ladders, even short ones. He also didn’t really know why he was putting up the lights, since he and Sandy were heading to Ontario later that day on a case and to spend the holidays with Jimmy’s parents.

            ‘I called you at work and they said you weren’t coming in,’ came a woman’s voice from behind him.

            Jimmy swivelled. ‘Oh, Mrs. Finlay. Good morning.’

            ‘Why aren’t you working?’ she demanded. ‘I called the police station.’

            ‘I am on holiday, Mrs. Finlay. I have a week off,’ said Jimmy.

            ‘Nice for some,’ sniffed Mrs. Finlay, a woman of indeterminate age who was generally regarded as equal to any task, whether it was hers or not. ‘I am here on business, Inspector Urquhart. Can you come down to speak to me?’

            ‘Certainly, Mrs. Finlay,’ said Jimmy, descending yet again. ‘How can I help?’

            ‘As you may know, I am the chairwoman of the Chancel Guild at St. Thomas’s Church. Do we have to stand outside in the cold?’ she demanded.

            ‘I’m not on duty, Mrs. Finlay. You really should be talking to Sergeant MacDonald,’ said Jimmy, failing to hide his increasing displeasure.

            ‘I don’t deal with subordinates, Mr. Urquhart. I shall come straight to the point. The communion silver is missing. All of it. Six chalices. Six patens. The pyx, the flagon, the cruet, everything. Gone,’ she stated accusatorially.

            Jimmy was tempted to protest that he did not take them but thought better of it. ‘When did you see them last?’ he asked.

            ‘Last Sunday, of course,’ she replied.  ‘I take it we are not going in?’

            ‘No. This cannot be handled here. I am leaving to visit my family this afternoon and I won’t be back until the New Year. Go and report this to Sergeant MacDonald. You can telephone your report if that is more convenient. Does Father Applebe know about this?’

            ‘He does,’ said Mrs. Finlay. ‘And he is about as much help as you are. Good day, Mr. Urquhart,’ she said and left the porch to cross the street.

            Jimmy watched her go, thinking that he had never seen anyone actually stomp before. He went inside and phoned the station and asked to be connected to Sergeant MacDonald. When his sergeant came on the line, Jimmy explained what he had been told.

            ‘Mrs. Finlay, eh?’ asked MacDonald. ‘They told me she called but wouldn’t talk to me. She must be in a right flap.’

            ‘Well, I guess the communion silver might be worth a penny or two,’ said Jimmy.

            ‘I should say so. Paul Revere, apparently,’ said Sergeant MacDonald.

            ‘The American? The midnight ride Paul Revere?’ asked Jimmy.

            ‘Yep. Brought here after the American rebellion. British soldiers built the church, you know – probably spoils of war,’ said Pretty.

            ‘So valuable, then,’ said Jimmy.

            ‘Everybody says so. But not valuable if they melt it down. It’s the name that’ll be worth the dough. Paul Revere,’ said MacDonald.

            ‘Well, Sergeant, I leave all this in your capable hands. We’re flying out this afternoon. We’ll stop overnight in Toronto, but I’ll let you know when we get to Mum and Dad’s place. Merry Christmas, mon ami. And don’t let Mrs. Finlay push you around,’ said Jimmy.

            ‘Merry Christmas, sir. And I won’t,’ said the sergeant.

            Alexander MacDonald was called Sandy by his family but was better known as‘Pretty.’It had been an unkind high school nickname. It had stuck. Now, at the tender age of thirty-six, he decided that he had grown into the face that nature had decreed and it was time to use his own given name. Since there were about a dozen other Sandy MacDonalds in Barrachois, he set upon Alec. When the phone rang a minute after the Inspector hung up, the sergeant picked up the receiver and said for the first time: ‘Alec MacDonald.’

            There was a pause before Mrs. Finlay’s voice began. ‘Is that you, Pretty MacDonald?’

            ‘Sergeant Alec MacDonald, yes, Mrs. Finlay,’ he replied.

            ‘You know nobody’s going to call you that, Pretty,’ she warned, and not kindly. ‘I’m phoning about a theft.’

            She filled the sergeant in on the missing silver and suggested he hustle himself over to St. Thomas’s Church and talk to both Father Applebe and Messrs. Furbish and Cramp, the two wardens. Mrs. Finlay impressed on Sergeant MacDonald the seriousness of the situation.

            ‘That communion service has been in St. Thomas’s since 1785 and now someone has just walked off with the very heart and soul of our church. With that Inspector of yours just skiving off when we need him the most, this will all fall to you, Pretty MacDonald. I’m going to be talking to the Chief of Police when I finish with you – so, he will know what I expect. Do you understand me?’ demanded Mrs. Finlay.

            ‘Perfectly, Mrs. Finlay. Do you understand that the thief has as much as a five-day head start?’ asked Sergeant MacDonald.

            ‘What do you mean by that?’

            ‘What I mean is that it is unfortunate that you, as chairwoman of the Chancel Guild, did not notice the disappearance earlier, that’s all,’ said MacDonald, who then bade her goodbye and hung up. He then telephoned St. Thomas’s Church and made an appointment with Father Applebe and the wardens, Furbish and Cramp.

            The sergeant left the station and got into his car. Since he was usually in plainclothes,he preferred to drive his own vehicle. It offered a whisper of anonymity, even thought he sometimes felt that the entire City of Barrachois knew him. It was Cape Breton after all, and he was vaguely related to half the population. The car started easily –three days before Christmas and the weather was balmy. The winds blew from the south-east, carrying mild air from the Gulf Stream. It would be a green Christmas, the second in a row. As Alec MacDonald drove along Main Street, beneath the white tinsel angels silently blowing their trumpets, he realized he was near McKellar Brothers’ Clothing. He had to make a call there, so he stopped outside the ladies’ side of the store and went in. He found Simon McKellar immediately and relayed the news that Inspector Urquhart was called away on business and would not be present at the christening of the new McKellar baby.

            ‘Oh, that is too bad,’ said Simon. ‘Both of them?’

            ‘Mrs. Urquhart, too. They have asked Mrs. MacDonald and me to stand proxy for them at the service,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘Really?’ asked Simon. ‘Is that allowed? Oh, that’ll be good. They’ll still be godparents, then, and you get to stand up for them. Really, that’s perfect. We owe you all so much.’

            ‘You won’t mind if Janet and my brother Asa come?’ asked the sergeant.

            ‘It wouldn’t be right without them,’ came a voice from the little cashier’s booth that straddled and served both the men’s and ladies’ sides. It was Peter McKellar, Simon’s older brother. ‘It’s good to see you, Sergeant. We’re all looking forward to the big day.’

            The Urquharts and MacDonald had been instrumental in saving the life of Peter McKellar earlier that year. They had come to know the two brothers very well, including Simon’s inability to read and write and Peter’s loyalty in preserving his brother’s secret. That loyalty had cost him the approval of his father, a prominent national business career, and even his wife. Old Mr. McKellar had expanded the family business into a national chain of clothing stores, but he had willfully excluded his sons from running anything but the original store in Barrachois. He dismissed them both as failures for staying close to home. He knew the sacrifices Peter made for Simon, but he did not approve.

‘Is your father coming for the christening?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Yes, he is,’ said Simon. ‘He’ll be arriving tonight by plane.’

            ‘Mr. Shaftment is picking him up in his taxi. He’ll be staying at the Grand,’ said Peter.

            ‘I see,’ said MacDonald. Clearly, the birth of a first grandchild had not entirely thawed the relationship between Edmund McKellar and his sons. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him at the christening. It’s St. Thomas’s, right?’

            ‘That’s right. Boxing Day. Two in the afternoon,’ said Simon.

            ‘See you then. Merry Christmas to you all,’ said the sergeant.

            A few minutes later, Sergeant MacDonald opened the door to St. Thomas’s Church. It was cold inside and smelled of wax, incense, and pine. Green boughs decorated the end of every pew. The alms box sat in a prominent position in the narthex. It was locked and intact, the sergeant noted. Whoever stole the communion silver wasselective.

            ‘Sergeant MacDonald?’ asked Father Applebe, walking down the centre aisle. ‘Good to see you again. I suggest we talk in the rectory. It’s perishing cold in here.’

            ‘That sounds like a good idea. If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d like to see where the communion service was stored. It wasn’t out in the open, was it?’

            ‘Oh, no. We only take it out for Mass. We kept it in the vestry. If you’d care to follow me?’ asked the priest.

            Father Applebe was about seventy years old, slight, with a pink face and a corona of white hair. He moved smoothly and quickly. Sergeant MacDonald, at half Applebe’s age, had trouble keeping up.

            ‘I noticed the alms box was not interfered with,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘Oh. Oh, I hadn’t even checked. How stupid of me,’ said the priest, turning at the door to the vestry. ‘That is peculiar. What an obvious thing for a thief to overlook.’

            ‘The door to the church is unlocked. Is it normally open like that?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Oh, yes. This is a place of welcome. We don’t hold with locked doors,’ said Applebe. ‘This way, sergeant. The cupboard is just there.’

            The cupboard was tall and shallow, with two doors of full height – almost six feet. A small, keyed lock was the only security. Sergeant MacDonald examined the lock. There were pry marks around the lock, but there was no splintered wood.

            ‘You can see where they pried it open,’ said the priest helpfully.

            ‘As if they used just a screwdriver,’ said the sergeant. ‘Not very secure, is it?’

            ‘I fear not. The idea of someone stealing the communion set never really entered our minds,’ said the rector, opening the cupboard for inspection. ‘I’ve prepared you a list of what was taken. I know that will be important.’

            ‘Do you have any photos?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Do I? Now, I don’t think we do. But you can ask at The Expositor. They did a story about the silver some years ago and they had photos in the paper,’ said Applebe. ‘Shall we repair to the warmth? Mr. Cramp and Mr. Furbish are waiting for us.’

            They left the vestry by the side door and walked around the church toward the rectory. Applebe opened the door to the shed attached to the house. They went through a door to the kitchen and entered a room thick with warmth and the smell of caramel. Two women were at the stove, stirring a big pot. Beside them stood Mrs. Applebe, plump and smiling as always.

            ‘Oh, Sergeant MacDonald. How nice to see you. I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances. Imagine making you work like this at Christmas. My manners. This is Mrs. Carvel and Miss Waymon. In case you’re wondering why they look so much alike, they are sisters, aren’t you, ladies?’

            ‘We are indeed. Dorothy Carvel,’ said a woman with brown hair and a slow, sad smile.

            ‘Carla Waymon,’ said the second woman. She resembled her sister closely but was younger and more spirited. Like her sister, she had an English accent. ‘We’re not twins, by the way.’

            ‘Alec MacDonald. I’m a police officer,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘Oh. I expect you’re here about the theft,’ said Carla. ‘Terrible business.’

            ‘You making toffee?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Yes,’ said Dorothy Carvel. ‘For the Sunday school children at Christmas. It’s the least we could do.’

            ‘Dorothy and her kids and Carla are staying with us just until they get settled,’ said Mrs. Applebe. ‘They just came over from England about a month ago.’

            ‘My husband was Canadian, you see. I’m not strictly speaking a war bride – we got married in 1937. But he signed up and was killed in Holland, just as the war was ending. We had always planned to move to Canada, and so, here I am,’ said Dorothy Carvel.

            ‘Making toffee,’ said her sister.

            ‘You decided to come, too?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘This is the only family I still have,’ said Carla Waymon.

            Sergeant MacDonald was loath to pry further, so he followed Father Applebe down the corridor to his little study at the front of the rectory. Inside, Mr. Cramp and Mr. Furbish rose from their chairs beside the little coal fire on the hearth. Introductions were made and the four men sat down, Father Applebe behind his desk.

            ‘Terrible business,’ said Mr. Furbish.

            ‘We were remiss,’ said Mr. Cramp. ‘We should have insisted on locking the doors.’

            ‘And a stronger cabinet,’ said Mr. Furbish.

            ‘Is the communion silver very valuable?’ asked Sergeant MacDonald.

            ‘It’s made by Paul Revere. It would be very valuable, especially south of the border. In the Boston states, for sure,’ said Mr. Cramp.

            ‘Has anyone ever shown interest in the silver?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Oh, yes,’ said Applebe. ‘All the time. It is well-known in certain circles, I’m led to believe. There is a feeling in some quarters that it shouldn’t be here in Canada at all.’

            ‘Strong feeling?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Well, they’re careful not to say things with too much spleen, this being a church, of course. But there is evident disapproval,’ said Mr. Cramp.

            ‘Any threats?’ asked the sergeant.

            ‘Oh, no. Never. Nothing like that,’ said Father Applebe, looking suddenly quite shocked at the thought.

            ‘Has anyone ever offered to buy the silver?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Not in my day here,’ said the priest.

            ‘Nothing after the article in The Expositor – the one with the photos?’ asked the sergeant.

            Applebecleared his throat. ‘No, sergeant. There was no offer.’

            ‘It used to happen regularly,’ said Furbish. ‘I was churchwarden in the ’twenties for a time.Eager buyers in the States. I know that for certain.’

            Cramp offered a valuation of the silver. MacDonald whistled. ‘Is that realistic?’

            ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Father Applebe. ‘Do you suppose there is any chance of finding out who was responsible for this?’

            The sergeant stood up. ‘It is likely that the silver was removed some days ago. If it was taken to be sold, it will almost certainly have been shipped to the United States. We will contact the Boston police and the American customs department. Something may have been spotted. We’ll also contact auction houses and galleries. I’ll go to The Expositor and get a copy of the photo. That will help, to be sure. Is the silver insured?’

            ‘No, I’m afraid it is not,’ said Cramp. ‘We never thought we needed the expense. We’re a church, after all,’ he repeated.

            ‘And all that goes with it,’ said Sergeant MacDonald, who took his leave of the men. He walked back down to the kitchen, where he stopped to say goodbye to Mrs. Applebe and the English sisters. Carla offered him a piece of toffee. He took it – it was cool already – and he popped it in his mouth.

            ‘Oh, is that ever good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I think that’s the best toffee I’ve ever had.’

            ‘Our parents were confectioners,’ explained Dorothy. ‘Sugar confectioners, that is. We were trained well.’

            ‘Both of you?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Oh, yes. We made sweets and chocolates and candied nuts and fruit. Old Bond Street. We were carriage trade,’ said Carla with a measure of pride.

            ‘You stopped?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘Our house was bombed out. Mum and Dad died,’ said Dorothy.

            ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘Not to mention sugar rationing. They’ve come here for a new life,’ said Mrs. Applebe. ‘They’re staying here at the rectory for the time being. It’s lovely having the children around, I can tell you.’

‘Underfoot,’ you mean, said Dorothy.

‘Nonsense. We’re trying to help, but I’m afraid we haven’t got far. Money is tight everywhere,’ said Mrs. Applebe.

            ‘You able to work?’ asked Sergeant MacDonald.

            ‘We were born to work. We want to start our own business,’ said Carla. ‘We don’t want to be living on charity. Mum and Dad never did. Neither will we.’

            ‘I wish you well,’ said MacDonald. ‘I really do. Are the kids doing OK?’

            ‘They adapt better than we do, that’s for certain,’ said Dorothy. ‘Ten, eight, and five years old. Two girls and a boy – he’s the five-year-old. Lots of friends already.’

            ‘Isn’t that nice? Barrachois is a fine place to grow up,’said Mrs. Applebe. ‘Despite this silver business. What must you both think of us?’

            Sergeant MacDonald left the warm, sweet air of the kitchen, passed through the porch, and out into the winter sunshine. He walked back around the church toward his car, but stopped as he opened the driver’s door. A familiar figure was going up the front steps of the church, wearing an old sealskin coat and matching beret. It was the church organist, Pearl Evans. Old Mrs. Evans was over eighty, a lapsed Methodist, a devotee of excellent champagne, and the mother of twins, Floyd and Lloyd, who worked at the dock of the steel mill. Floyd and Lloyd had got themselves into a scrape a year before, but Urquhart and MacDonald had helped them through it. Pearl was forever grateful. She spotted the sergeant and rushed over to him as fast as her age and solidity allowed.

            ‘Mr. MacDonald. I thought it might have been Mr. Urquhart come to see into this business. But it’s you. That’s good, too, of course. How are you?’ she asked.

            ‘Just fine, Mrs. Evans. Terrible thing, isn’t it?’ he asked, noncommittally.

            ‘Can you talk to my boys? They wanted to come see you, but I told them not to,’ said Pearl, looking over her shoulder.

            ‘They can come to the station any time,’ said MacDonald.

            ‘No, I don’t think that’ll work. Private-like is better, dear,’ she confided in a voice that could be heard across the street.

            Sergeant MacDonald knew the reputation the boys had. The ‘boys’ were forty years old and had lived a life on the edge of larceny, which accounted for their mother’s vast supply of champagne and fine tobacco. For all that, they were good men – just easily led. These days, they were being sternly led by the redoubtable Pearl.

            ‘They told you something?’ asked the sergeant.

            ‘They did the right thing, for a change. I’m proud of ’em and I don’t want a fuss. You understand?’ she asked.

            ‘I think I do, Mrs. Evans. It’s something to do with those two English ladies and their kids, isn’t it?’ asked MacDonald.

            ‘I’ll say no more, but you’ve got a good head on you, Mr. MacDonald. And it’s not them I’m worried about. Gotta go. Learning God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. New arrangement. On the orders of that Finlay woman. Duchess of the Chancel Guild,’ she snorted. ‘Nothing wrong with the old arrangement, and I’m tempted to just play it and see if she notices,’ said Pearl.

‘She’s a force,’ said MacDonald.

‘Steamroller. Sorry, my dear. That wasn’t nice. And here we are, Christmas and all. Time for love and miracles. Not … well, not for a lot of things. Go see the boys. They’re at home.’

            At the Evans house, Sergeant MacDonald sat down with Lloyd and Floyd. Before they said anything, MacDonald held up his hand. ‘I don’t want you to say anything to me, lads. I’m going to tell you a story and I just want you to nod if I’m right. OK?’

            The boys didn’t know if they should nod, so they both made a thumbs-up.

            Sergeant MacDonald told them who approached them with the silver, where they were to ship it. He informed them that he thought the communion silver was there in the Evans house, probably under the floorboards where they stored Pearl’s illicit champagne. Floyd and Lloyd sat, mouths open, and nodded.

            ‘You did the right thing, lads. And don’t worry. No one is going to get into trouble if you do just as I tell you. You OK with that?’ asked the sergeant.

            They nodded eagerly.

            ‘Now don’t do anything yet. I’ll call you in about an hour. You’ve got a phone, right?’

            Floyd nodded and Lloyd pointed.

            Sergeant MacDonald got back to the police station and began to make calls. The first was to Napier Sowerby, the lawyer. He confirmed that a certain large, somewhat derelict, house was still for sale. Could it be rented instead? Would the owner consider a peppercorn rent of a dollar a year? Mr. Sowerby listened intently to the story and then spoke in his dry legal way.

            ‘As you know, sergeant, Miss Laffin is not interested in keeping the house on Matthews Street or making any sort of profit from its sale. It holds no happy memories for her. Your proposition is an admirable one. I will put the story to her and see what she says. May I call you at the station?’ he asked.

            ‘Of course, Mr. Sowerby. It’s very good of you,’ said MacDonald.

            ‘It’s really not in a fit state to live in,’ cautioned Sowerby.

            ‘I know. I have an idea about that. If Miss Laffin is agreeable.’

            ‘I’ll let you know shortly. Merry Christmas, sergeant,’ said Sowerby.

            ‘Merry Christmas, sir,’ said MacDonald.

            A mere ten minutes later, Mr. Sowerby called to relay the enthusiastic assent of the owner, Miss Laffin. He was to draw up the papers to rent it for a dollar a year – on a ten-year lease! Mr. Sowerby was, for him, giddy with pleasure. Sergeant MacDonald was stupefied and burbled thanks.

            ‘Just make it all happen, sergeant. Make us proud,’ said Sowerby. ‘Miss Laffin said to do what you will to make it habitable.’

            The sergeant telephoned the Evans brothers and asked them to approach the dockworkers union with a plan. Lloyd enthusiastically suggested he could contact the manager at the steel mill, too.

            ‘Great idea, Lloyd. We can divide and conquer. It will have to be on Christmas Eve – well, the morning and afternoon,’ said the sergeant. ‘Not nice for most of the men.’

            ‘They’ll jump at it, Mister,’ said Lloyd.

            Lloyd and Floyd were as good as their word. Forty men would arrive at eight o’clock on the twenty-fourth. Labour secured, Sergeant MacDonald turned his thoughts to creature comforts and materials. He phoned the dean of Barrachois shopkeepers, Peter McKellar.

            McKellar got his brother to join in on the extension phone. Peter and Simon listened to the circumstances and Sergeant MacDonald’s simple plea. Clothes for the kids and paint and paper and cleaning supplies for the house. Peter spoke first.

            ‘Mr. MacDonald, I owe you and the Inspector my life. I’ll call Mrs. Applebe and see if she can figure out the sizes for the children. Simon and I will do our bit, you can count on us.’

            ‘And we’ll talk to Mr. Dempster at the hardware store. He’s a good egg,’ said Simon. ‘When do you need the stuff?’

            ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ve got forty people coming to do the work,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘You have been busy. We’ll make sure everything is there by eight o’clock. Will that work?’ asked Peter. ‘Tomorrow’s a busy morning for shopkeepers. Busiest day of the year. Maybe you could organize someone to go around and pick up things?’

            ‘I have just the men,’ said Sergeant MacDonald. ‘Can you phone me with a list of stores?’

            ‘Will do,’ said Simon. ‘Will do, indeed.’

            Sergeant MacDonald called out the door of his little office in the Criminal Investigation Division. ‘Hoegy!’ Both Constable Dick Hoegy and his brother Constable Jack Hoegyentered on the run, eager and ready for anything. As usual.

            ‘Lads,’ began MacDonald, ‘we have a little community project to help with. Tomorrow morning. Not police business in any way, shape, or form. It’ll be on your own time, understand? You up for it?’

            The Hoegys looked at each other. They had plans to head over to their parents’ house tomorrow, but those could wait. They nodded and Sergeant MacDonald filled them in.

            ‘You going to be there, Sarge?’ asked Dick.

            ‘Somebody’s got to man the fort here. But if you can, it’d be good if one or both of you could make sure things get done right,’ said MacDonald.

            ‘With that many people, it shouldn’t take long,’ said Jack. ‘We’re in. How do we pick up the stuff?’

            ‘I’ll be in early. You can take my car. No patrol car. Strictly volunteer, understand?’ Sergeant MacDonald cautioned.

            ‘Sounds great, Sarge. Good for you,’ said Jack.

            ‘Get outta here,’ said MacDonald. ‘I’ve got a couple more calls to make.’

            The first was to his wife. Jane MacDonald was still at work at Crich’s Bakery. Jane started the day at five in the morning and she usually finished up around two in the afternoon. Alec MacDonald had caught her just before she headed home.

            ‘Does the bakery have counter space you don’t use very much?’ was his opening question.

            ‘Why, Alec?’ asked his wife, who then listened to her husband’s ideas. ‘Jeez, Alec, I don’t think it’d work here. There’s not enough room for that kind of operation in the back. I don’t think I should even ask Johnnie.’Johnnie Crich was eighty if he was a day, still worked all hours, and resented every one of them.

            ‘Can you think of anywhere else?’ asked Alec MacDonald.

            ‘You could try the groceteria. They might be open to something like that. They’d certainly have the room for a sales counter,’ said Jane. ‘Not sure about a kitchen, though.’           

            ‘What would be needed – to make the stuff, I mean?’ asked her husband.

            ‘Not a lot to get going. Stove. Fridge. Pans and so on. Worktable,’ she replied. ‘Call the manager. Don’t know his name, but he’ll be there.’

            Sergeant MacDonald reached the manager, who said he liked the idea, but didn’t have the authority. ‘Talk to the owner,’ he said, and gave the sergeant a familiar phone number.

            ‘Hello and Merry G.D. Christmas to you,’ came the voice of Connie Del Barba. In a day of the unexpected, the realization that Mrs. Del Barba owned the brand-new groceteria was the biggest surprise of all.

            ‘Sergeant MacDonald! Whadda ya want, Pretty?’ barked Connie into the phone. Connie was a fixture of impolite society in Barrachois – a chain-smoking, cocktail-swilling, chic, and volubly vulgar seventy-something miracle. A Damon Runyan figure even Damon Runyan couldn’t have dreamt up. MacDonald expressed his surprise at Connie being the owner of the new-fangled groceteria, complete with its modern electric-eye door.

            ‘Hell’s bells, you caught me. Back in the grocery business. Well, I’ve never been someone to just sit around on her assets, now have I? Keep this under your hat, Pretty, or I’ll get you,’ she warned. Pretty could hear the click-snap of Connie’s Zippo lighter and then a drag on what he knew was a Sweet Caporal cigarette. ‘Spill, copper.’

            By this time, the story was well-oiled and succinct. There was a pause after he finished,and Connie spoke: ‘That’s a great idea. And you know what? I’ll do it. As a partner. We can sell the stuff – it’s good, right?’

            MacDonald said it was.

            ‘We can sell to the hotels. Some of them are putting little shops in their lobbies. They’d sell like hotcakes there. And the ships, headed for Montreal. Or New York. They’d eat it up. Eat it up, get it?’ she laughed. ‘I’m in. But I gotta meet ’em.’

            Sergeant MacDonald said he was going over to the rectory around four and he could pick her up.

            ‘Well, you sure as hell don’t let the grass grow under ya, do ya, Pretty?’ she replied.

‘Could you just call me sergeant, Mrs. Del Barba?’ asked MacDonald quietly.

Connie got it. ‘You don’t like that nickname of yours, do you? Why’d they hang Pretty on you, anyhow?’

            Barrachois had few surnames and many nicknames. Differentiation was a necessity. The sergeant explained he’d had bad skin when he was in high school.

            ‘Pricks,’ said Connie. ‘And I’m sorry for using it. I’m buggered if I’m gonna call you sergeant all the time. What’s your real name?’

            ‘Alexander. I want to use Alec,’ said the sergeant.

            ‘Alec. Good name. Suits you. A handsome name. I’ll see you at quarter to four, Alec MacDonald,’ said Connie.

            Alec MacDonald couldn’t decide whether he was elated or deflated. And he couldn’t decide whether Connie Del Barba had called him handsome or not. He closed his eyes and put his head back. He was tired and suddenly worried that he was interfering.

            ‘Shoot,’ he said aloud, wishing that Jimmy Urquhart was in his office. He was taking a lot on himself. This was theft, after all.

At quarter to four, Alec MacDonald picked up Connie Del Barba, who was dressed in a bright red dress and hat and wore a fox coat.

‘Don’t think I’ll scare them, do you?’ she asked.

‘They’ve been through the Blitz, Mrs. Del Barba.’

‘So, not ready then?’ she laughed. ‘Let’s go and don’t spare the horses. I’m old, Alec MacDonald, and I can’t afford to be slow at anything.’

‘OK, but don’t be hasty when you talk to them. Don’t spill the beans,’ said the sergeant.

At the rectory, Connie threw her coat on the back of a kitchen chair, lit up a smoke, and started a long conversation with Carla Waymon and Dorothy Carvel. She let the sisters talk about their life and their training. She prompted gently and found out about their skills and specialities. Dorothy offered a plate of sweets – toffees, licorices, chocolate truffles. Over the next few minutes, as Carla explained how wonderful it was to be able to buy sugar again without worrying about rationing, Connie Del Barba tried one of everything on the plate.

In the rector’s little study, Alec MacDonald met Father Applebe alone for the first time. ‘Mr. Cramp and Mr. Furbish gone home?’

‘Oh, no, sergeant. They’re in the vestry, installing a new lock for the silver cabinet. I don’t know why they’re bothering, since there’s nothing to lock away anymore,’ said Father Applebe. ‘Have you found out anything, Mr. MacDonald?’

‘Oh, quite a bit, Father. We believe that it is very likely that someone from the church removed the silver. The alms box wasn’t touched. That lock on the cupboard was never really forced. There was no splintering around the lock, just a few marks from a screwdriver, to give an impression,’ said Sergeant MacDonald.

‘Someone from the church?’ repeated the priest. He grasped the arms of his chair. Sergeant MacDonald was making him uncomfortable.

‘I can see you don’t like that notion. Well, I think I should put your mind at rest. I don’t think the communion silver was stolen. I think that some well-meaning soul removed the silver to clean it,’ said the sergeant.

‘Clean it? Polish them?’ asked Father Applebe in surprise. ‘But the Chancel Guild…’

‘I don’t mean to speak ill of anyone, Father, but the chairwoman of the Chancel Guild is not the easiest of persons. Would you want to work side by side with her? If you could avoid it? Come now, shame the devil,’ said MacDonald.

Father Applebe made the smallest of shrugs in agreement, but he was still confused.

‘This, I am happy to say, will not be a police matter,’ said the sergeant, rising from his chair. ‘I won’t even file a report. I have no doubt that the miscreant would be heartily sorry for any trouble caused, whatever good was intended.’

‘You may be right,’ said Father Applebe, looking appreciatively at the sergeant.

‘I expect we will see the silver back before Midnight Mass tomorrow,’ said MacDonald. ‘We’ll see you then.’

‘You and Jane and Janet? And Asa?’ asked the priest.

‘For sure. Wouldn’t miss it,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll just go and collect Mrs. Del Barba.’

‘It was nice of you to bring her along. Good for the elderly to get out,’ said Father Applebe.

‘I wouldn’t let Connie hear you call her elderly,’ warned MacDonald with a grin.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m a getting a little elderly myself. Doing foolish things, you understand,’ said Applebe.

‘But for the right reasons, Father. So does Connie, despite appearances. It might be good to get to know her,’ said the sergeant as they walked toward the kitchen and the sounds of whooping laughter.

Mrs. Applebe was doubled over in wild agitation, waving her hands up and down and up and down. ‘Oh, my God, I snorted that Coca-Cola right up my nose!’ she cried. ‘I haven’t laughed so hard in years.’

‘I gotta go, ladies, but I’ll be back. The twin purveyors of all kinds of rectitude are here and I better behave,’ said Connie, flinging her fox coat over her shoulders. Outside, she turned to MacDonald. ‘They’re the real goods. You got a deal, flatfoot. Thanks.’

The bell over the door of the menswear side of McKellar Brothers rang. All the salesclerks, including Peter McKellar, were busy, so no one greeted the old man who entered. He was ninety, with quick eyes, a sharp nose, and thin, pale lips. He wore a heavy overcoat with a persian lamb collar, and he walked with a stick. This was Edmund McKellar, the store’s owner, entering a place he hadn’t visited in thirty years. His younger son, Simon, had never completed school, to the ire of his father. His older son, Peter, had been loyal to his brother and stayed in the little shop in Barrachois, even though his father had once wanted him to succeed to the control of McKellar Clothing and its cross-Canada network of stores. Edmund was bitterly disappointed in this unbusinesslike behaviour, but Peter would not abandon his brother. Simon, you see, could not read or write.

            Edmund McKellar gave up on his sons, and instead looked to the next generation. His will provided that control of the firm would pass to the first grandchild, with its father to act as trustee. Simon had won the race. Thisresult angered the old man. His illiterate son would head the company, at least until the child was twenty-five. Edmund illogically felt tricked. He was now intent on changing his will and settling the company on this grandchild with a board of trustees that Edmund would appoint. People who know business, he vowed to himself. Edmund was only in Barrachois because of the christening on Boxing Day. Edmund grudgingly approved the choice of date, for the store would be closed; it was a holiday.

The old man roamed the store, both the men’s side and the ladies’ side. He checked prices, viewed the stock room, pored over the sales records behind the cashier’s wicket. As the clock in Peter’s little office ticked over to six o’clock, Edmund heard the last customer leave and the doors being locked. He sat and waited for his sons, who stood next door to the office, in the customer lounge. To his astonishment he overheard their whispered plans to give away clothing to strangers! Two women and three children. More incomprehensibly, he heard them speak on the telephone to other merchants, organizing deliveries of food, bedding, coal, toys, and even a Christmas tree. All of this was to happen tomorrow on Christmas Eve. Edmund could stand it no longer. He emerged from Peter’s office in the full majesty of his wrath to denounce the extent of their charity, but most of all to rail against the time it would involve on the busiest day of the entire year, Christmas Eve.

‘We run this store, father,’ said Peter, whose aquiline face was red with fury. His voice was barely under control. ‘We run it well. We will be going in the morning to check on what is happening. If you’d like to learn something, you can come with us.’

‘There is nothing you can teach me, Peter McKellar. Or you, Simon,’ said the old man.

‘Then you can have a nice ride in the morning. We’ll pick you up at your hotel,’ said Simon. ‘Shall I call a taxi for you? Mr. Shaftment will take you back to your hotel.’

The twenty-fourth of December dawned warm and sunny. At seven-thirty a car drove slowly past Miss Laffin’s old house on Matthews Street. It stood forlorn, scoured bare of paint by the salt winds of the North Atlantic. The gardens were overgrown and thick with decay. The three McKellar men surveyed the neglect and the immense challenge that lay ahead. The car made a three-point turn and left the little cul-de-sac, just as another car arrived. Three large men and a woman got out of it and stood in silence, regarding the scene.

Despite assurances, Miss Laffin’s old house was not favoured by forty willing volunteers. By eight o’clock there were eighty on the sidewalk, all from two union halls – the longshoremen and the steel workers. They bore their own brushes and rakes and hammers and buckets and ladders and drop cloths. Two shop stewards began organizing everyone into teams. Each room inside the house was given a foreman. As the foremen began choosing up teams, Jack Hoegy arrived in Sergeant MacDonald’s car, loaded with paint and cleaning supplies. Dick Hoegy rolled up a moment later in his dad’s car, freighted with even more paint and even some wallpaper.

            ‘They got exterior paint, too! It’s warm enough, we can do the outside!’ shouted a woman from the steel mill. Fifteen of the eighty volunteers were soon painting the wooden siding and shutters.Five more replaced broken window glass. Eight more tackled the grounds. The other fifty-odd attacked the inside.

            By one o’clock, all eighty workers were back on the sidewalk. The old house had been transformed. Clean, freshly painted. A load of coal in the cellar. Wood in the wood box. A pile of trash at the curb, ready for removal. The city had sent someone to turn on the electricity and the water. There was a new phone. It had been just five hours of work. The volunteers were all smiling.No one was ready to leave, and it was with applause and cheers that they welcomed vans and trucks, emblazoned with the names of local merchants, arrive with food, furniture, and gifts.

            The Burrell brothers, Marc and Roly, arrived with a truck to remove the junk. It was loaded up in about two minutes flat by 160 hands. Now the volunteers left.

            The Hoegyand the Burrell brothersstayed to make beds and hang towels on racks. At two o’clock, the greengrocers, Dom Cuccia and his wife, arrived with hampers of food and a Christmas tree. The presents were soon tucked underneath its branches. Mrs. Cuccia placed a big basket of fruit, wrapped in cellophane, on the centre table in the hall. Jack Hoegy locked the big front door and they all left for their own Christmas Eve.

At McKellar Brothers, at Cuccia’s greengrocery, at Dempster’s Hardware – in fact in every shop that had donated to the cause – miners and steelworkers thronged that afternoon. They were mostly men, doing long-delayed Christmas shopping. Peter and Simon and their staff were run off their feet. They had never seen a last-minute rush like that. Normally, that sort of desperation buying went to Woolworth’s and Eaton’s.

            ‘You see? The busiest day of the year, and you sent two of our clerks out for over an hour with gifts for someone you don’t even know!’ growled Edmund McKellar, poring over the receipts for the day.

            ‘Look at the same day last year,’ said Simon, proffering a ledger. ‘See the difference?’

            The old man gaped and then slammed both ledgers shut. He did not like to be wrong.

            At a quarter past six, Peter McKellar’s car once again pulled up beside the house on Matthews Street. In the passenger seat sat old Edmund McKellar. He was wrapped against the evening chill with lap rugs.

‘A pretty picture, I’ll give you that. Who paid for it?’ he demanded.

‘Nobody paid anything, Dad. It was all volunteered,’ said Simon.

‘Why?’ asked the old man.

‘Like we said. Sergeant MacDonald asked us,’ said Peter McKellar.

‘And you just jump when he says “jump”, do you?’ scoffed Edmund McKellar, who considered his sons weaklings.

Peter fought the temptation to point out the irony in the fact that his father expected everyone to jump every time he uttered a word. Instead, he merely remarked: ‘Sergeant MacDonald is a good man. I am alivepartly because of him. And so, father, are you.’

‘A policeman? It was that Black doctor that figured it out. Showed up those idiots in Montreal who were no use whatsoever. Policeman had nothing to do with it,’ stated Edmund, flatly.

His sons had had enough.

‘You’re wrong. As usual,’ said Peter. ‘Dead wrong.’

‘I’m not going to sit here for this. Drive me back to the hotel,’ said Edmund McKellar, white spots of rage appearing on his nose.

‘You can sit here and listen. We were there. We know who saved your life. It wasn’t just one man. It was the sergeant, Inspector Urquhart, Mrs. Urquhart, and the doctor. A team,’ said Simon.

‘You’re so used to barking orders you don’t even know what a team means,’ said Peter, his deep anger surfacing. ‘I hoped you might have changed, but I was a fool to think that.’

‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve ever said. You are a fool,’ said Edmund. ‘Drive me to the hotel, damn you.’

‘Why do you think we had the best Christmas Eve sales ever? We don’t have the best prices – and those men who came in – you saw them – have to be careful with their money. But they know we helped today. That’s why they bought things in our store. And at the greengrocer’s and at Dempster’s Hardware,’ said Peter, as evenly as he could manage.

‘To put it in terms you understand, we made a present of about seventy dollars worth of clothing to those two women and their kids. We had unexpected sales of more than six hundred dollars. When’s the last time you made an investment that returned eight-to-one?’ challenged Simon.

‘What the hell do you know about numbers?’ sneered his father.

‘More than you. I can read, now, father. And write. And I can do sums. I’m not quick, but I’m learning,’ said Simon, more to Peter than to his father.

‘Simon,’ said Peter, taken aback.

‘You’ve always done everything for me, Pete. I’m going to help more. I have a son, now, and I want him to be as proud of me as I am of you. I’m tired of hiding and I’m sick of pretending,’ said Simon. He drew a notebook, wrapped in gold paper, from his coat pocket. ‘Merry Christmas, Peter. Flip to the last two pages.’

Peter unwrapped the notebook and flipped through page upon page of steadily improving penmanship and complexity of spelling. The second-last page was addressed to Peter. Simon thanked Peter for protecting him and his secret. Simon knew what it had cost Peter – opportunity, adventure, and success.

‘There is very little I can give you to show my thanks. But there is one thing,’ Simon had written at the bottom of the second-to-last page. On the last page was written: ‘My son will be christened Peter Alvin McKellar.’

No one said anything. From the back seat, Simon stretched out his hand and placed it on his big brother’s shoulder. Peter clutched his brother’s hand.

Midnight Mass at St. Thomas’ would start at 10.30 and end just after midnight. Pearl, Floyd, and Lloyd Evans arrived ninety minutes early, even before the churchwardens, the ladies of the Chancel Guild, and the verger. Under the direction of Pearl, her boys laid out the brightly polished communion silver in proper order. Then they went out to the truck to wait.

Mr. Cramp arrived at 9.45, the same time as Mrs. Finlay. Mr. Cramp switched on the lights and the silver on the altar shone. Mrs. Finlay was speechless. Pearl and her boys entered. Floyd and Lloyd helped light the candles and Pearl went up to the organ loft to begin playing. Mrs. Applebe, Carla, Dorothy and her kids arrived and joined the Chancel Guild in laying out hymnals. The pews filled quickly, filled to overflowing. Mrs. Applebe was stunned by a standing-room-only turnout.

The verger led the procession, followed by the choir, the servers, a deacon, and the celebrant, Father Applebe, who staggered a trifle when the communion silver came into his view. The service began and moved with practised grace. Some congregants noticed that Father Applebe was more animated than normal as he spoke the Penitential Act: ‘I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done.’ His homily treated on generosity of spirit and brotherhood and so, the singing of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemenwas triumphant, especially the lines: ‘And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace.’

Neither Napier Sowerby nor Connie Del Barba had children, so it fell to them to take Carla, Dorothy, and her kids to the Matthews Street house early on Christmas morning. It was just eight o’clock and the sun was still low in the sky. Napier Sowerby had a big car, but it was full.

            ‘Now I know what a sardine feels like,’ said Connie, getting out. ‘Hey, looks pretty good, eh, Napier?’

            ‘It does indeed, Mrs. Del Barba. Why don’t we go in?’ he suggested. He took out a key and opened the big front door. Connie held back, letting the family go in first. ‘Oh, now where are the light switches?’ wondered Sowerby. He knew full well where they were.

            He entered the living room and flicked a switch. The Christmas tree blazed into light. Connie turned on the lights in the entrance hall, in the study, and on the staircase to the next floor.

            ‘I don’t understand,’ said Dorothy.

            ‘Here,’ said Napier Sowerby, handing her the key. ‘Welcome to your new home. Merry Christmas.’

            ‘Merry Christmas, honey,’ said Connie, first to one sister, then the other. She then explained the offer of a partnership in a confectionery business – starting with a counter in the groceteria. The speed at which their lives were forever changed was numbing.

            ‘How?’ was all Dorothy could ask.

            ‘A really nice copper. Would ya believe it? A goddamn cop,’ said Connie.

The christening of Peter Alvin McKellar went as smoothly as anything that involved a baby could. Alec and Jane MacDonald stood proxy for Jimmy and Sandy Urquhart. Peter McKellar was a godfather, as was Dr. Alvin Grandage. The other godmothers were Susan McKellar’s two sisters.

            At the reception, Susan came up to Sergeant MacDonald. ‘I want you to know I think you’re a pretty amazing person. To do what you did.’

‘A few phone calls. Other people did the work,’ replied MacDonald. He attempted to change the subject. ‘Things are going well with your father-in-law?’

Susan and the sergeant turned to see Edmund McKellar holding his grandson, flanked by Peter and Simon. ‘Let’s just say that there’s been a thaw. We’ll see how long it lasts. Sergeant, is that your brother over there?’ Susan pointed.

            Asa MacDonald was standing with his sister-in-law, Jane. Asa was slight, not tall, but with a warm smile ready for anyone. He spoke with difficulty, and he did not move either quickly or fluidly. He was kind and gentle and sweet-tempered. He also needed caring and protection.

            ‘Would you like to meet him?’ asked Alec MacDonald.

            Susan McKellar shook Asa’s hand and asked if he’d had a good Christmas.

            ‘Oh, yes,’ he smiled. ‘Lots of clothes.’

            ‘Peter – that’s him over there – he said you like clothes. We were wondering if you might like to have a job in our store. Folding shirts and sweaters and so on. Maybe two days a week to start? Friday and Saturday?’ asked Susan, a little wide-eyed and hopeful.

            ‘Oh, Asa,’ said his brother, a little dazed at the offer. ‘What do you think? Working for a living?’

            ‘Yes, please, Alec. Yes, please, miss.’

            Of all the people who received such wonderful gifts that Christmas, Sergeant MacDonald thought that he got the very best one.

The End

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