Published by The Ofi Press, 2011.
Her father had left
his record collection and a coffee shop.
Lara
had no clue that he’d owned anything of more worth than his rhinestone leather chaps,
and was blown away when his lawyer presented deeds and
a
set of keys. Three boxes of vinyl would be waiting at the ‘property’.
‘It’s
is on the coastal road between Sooke and Port Renfrew, on Vancouver Island. It’s all
yours, Lara.’
She
took the brown envelope and peered inside. ‘There’s no photo, just a map.’
The
lawyer leaned back on his leather swivel chair. ‘A
pparently
it’s done out really nice. There’s even living quarters out back.’
‘So
it’s not a total dump.’
‘I
have a feeling you’ll be pleasantly surprised,’ he said.
‘There’s
no note, either.
‘Your
father was a man of few words.’ He looked out the window at the rain. ‘Interesting
words, but there weren’t many of them.’
Lara
was curious about the records, although they would probably be mostly country music
'greats' and she’d always found their droning lyrics about life's hardships a little
trying. The set of keys was intriguing though, and at last she was on the property
ladder. As she stepped out of the lawyer’s office and onto a wet Georgia Street, she
began to walk differently, less slouched. This could be her chance to change things.
Her job in marketing research was well paid but somewhat destro
ying
her soul. She was ‘in between’ boyfriends. A coffee shop on the island - well there
was a thing.
This
Sooke coastal road seemed a little out-of-the-way, but owning a business had to be
a step up from handing over fifteen hundred a month to a landlord with small-man syndrome.
She’d been renting a contemporary waterfront apartment in Vancouver, part of a building
that was predictably - some would say hideously - called Urban
Living. Mr. Parsons once offered some sheepskin moccasins to wear indoors as apparently
when she shuffled around the tiny living space, the noise of her footsteps was deafening
the tenants in the apartment below. She had borrowed an excellent phrase from her
father’s repertoire.
‘Stick them where the
sun don’t shine.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The
mocassins. In your arse. Maybe you shouldn't have cheaped out on the building insulation,
Mr. Parsons.’
There
had been no complaints since, but still, that was no way to live.
She
ached to find out what her Dad had left her in his will - presumably to make up for
the years he’d spent on the road with his country music band, Coast
Rodeo. He was often away for months at a time. Growing up with Auntie Babs had
been fine; she was her mother's sister and she loved her. But it wasn’t the same.
She studied the keys. Her father had put them on a plastic cowboy hat key ring and,
when you pressed the underside, a series of lights flashed around the rim. It was
very ‘him’.
She
was six years old and it was her mother's funeral. On the previous day she’d heard,
but not understood, a heated debate between Dad and Auntie Babs about whether she
should be allowed to go. She was standing right there in the sodden English field,
so Dad must have won. Auntie Babs had said 'it's no place for a child,' and so she
was nervous but the big black car was lovely and shiny and all the flowers were so
pretty. Lara wasn't fully aware that she would never see her mother again, smell perfume
on her scarf, share secrets.
The
day was bursting with colour. There was an expanse of grass, bright green like her
crayon that said 'summer meadow' on it. The Church was pure white, the rose bushes
very pink. Dad was crying and she held
his
hand, studied his crushed face. She wasn't sure what she should say to him, who was
in charge. They lowered her mother into the hole in the ground and he lurched forward
so violently that his hat fell off. She picked it up for him and dusted off the leaves.
The
road from Sooke wound in and away from the ocean and went on forever. Huge ferns and
old-growth trees gave way to dusty shrubbery, then firs, then back to Jurassic forest
again. Lara drove past French Beach Provincial Park and Point no Point and continued
on towards the Jordan River, windows down, her left arm sticking out to burn in the
sun.
She knew it was the
place as soon as it came into view. It was painted Marigold Yellow with a thatched
roof of the kind you might see on a postcard from Devon, England. Her father’s elderly
Aunt Winifred lived in the West Country and insisted on sending them predictable cards
adorned with cottages and scones each summer. They were supposed to find the cards
endearing but they
always
had a good laugh about them. She felt a searing guilt for all the scorn and then sad
that her father wasn't here to present this funny, poignant building to her in person.
Lara
pulled up on the graveled area outside, the crunch under tires oddly comforting, like
she’d come home after a long spell away. Framed by blue sky, the yellow was startlingly
bright and she was concerned it would half blind the drivers trying to negotiate the
treacherous bend in the road. It shouted 'hey look at me and don't watch the road'.
She went inside and the place smelled of fresh paint and adhesive and newness. The
walls were painted white, the small countertop in the centre contrasting in dark granite.
There was a note stuck on one of the cabinets and she grabbed at it, hands shaking.
Lara
He
used to pronounce her name Lar-ra and she could hear his chesty voice reverberating
around the tiny room. It was just as well he was the guitarist and not the lead singer
in his day because his throat was spoiled from too many roll-ups. She opened the note
and sat outside on the wooden step to read it.
Dear
Lara,
I
built this place with the rest of the crew, we've been co
ming
over here a few times a year to play music and write songs. It’s the dog’s bollocks.
We loved it and I'm hoping you will too. The place is licensed and ready to go, all
you have to do is name it. You don't need all that city shit, just be yourself. I'm
sorry I was such a crap Dad.
Enjoy
life.
I
love you. Dad.
That
was it. So all those times she’d thought he was on a road trip across Canada, through
Oregon, hitting California, he was just a couple of hours away from Vancouver - on
a regular basis. She’d wanted to read something poetic, some heartfelt regrets about
how much of his life he had spent with some sad old musos. But there was none of that.
She
crumpled the note and threw it down the steps, unable to look at it or to throw it
away.
She
was standing in the doorway of Auntie Bab's house, trying to ignore the obnoxious
noise of her cousins inside. Lara was twelve, just had a birthday, and Dad was going
away again after staying for only a fortnight.
‘Summer holidays
have only just started, Dad. Please stay a bit longer.’
‘Can’t,
my love. We’re on tour in a week and we’ve got to practise, get the old fingers moving.’
‘Can’t
I come with you?
‘Can’t
take kids on tour, you’re joking, aren’t you? Don’t worry darlin’, I’ll be back in
two shakes of a monkey’s bum.’
‘I’m
not a kid any more.’
The other members
of the band were in a battered white van in the driveway, cigarette smoke billowing
out of the windows. The smell of tobacco mixed with cheap aftershave and leathers
wafted over. She wanted to be a part of it. Touring seemed so exciting compared with
staying there and having to help with the boys, do the washing up, clean the bathroom,
there's a good girl. Her father had a clod of scrambled egg on his collar and she
flicked it off. There was the back of his hat again, hair hanging d
own
to his shoulders, his drainpipe legs disappearing into the van. There was cheering
and shouting. The wheels squealed in the driveway as she watched them go, hand raised.
There
was an old Sony record player on one of the tables, speakers on the window ledges.
He’d taught her from a young age how to use a stylus without scratching his vinyl.
Dad had never really understood new technology.
‘Ain’t
nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned LP. Shiny as a badger’s q
ueer-thing
and solid as.’
‘Solid
as what?’ she’d asked.
He
didn’t reply, just showed her how to place the stylus. It was one of her many unanswered
questions.
She dug out a Coast
Rodeo vinyl from one of the boxes in the back of the shop. It was their second
release, Go With The Heart. It came out
of the cover smoothly, the face of it scratch-free, immaculate. It crackled slightly
when
she put it on, but otherwise the sound was clear. It was good. She left the door open
and sat on a wooden chair outside, the sun on her face. There was a blank sign out
there. As the sounds of her father’s band drifted, she thought of what she could call
the place. The Guilty Caffeine could reference
her father’s guilt money and to coffee being naughty. Dead
Bend was a good play on words pertaining to the treacherous road – and to the
old man in the ground, after enjoying one too many of life’s pleasures. Lara's
Lattés was kind of ironic, the Latté being a Vancouver staple and reminiscent
of other city status symbols, like tiny pedigree dogs and branded yoga wear.
A
kingfisher flew overhead; she had never seen one so close before. She shut her eyes
and concentrated, found that she could smell the ocean, salt air mixed with cedar.
She listened to the lyrics, really heard them, and finally she understood.
I'm
missin' you baby,
You’re
stuck in my mind,
The
sounds of the waves again,
Washin'
away the pain.
He missed Mum, of course
he did. Couldn’t bear to come home because it reminded him of all things her. A place
like this was an escape, another world. After the funeral, he had been absent, and
dista
nt
even when he was around. He always said she reminded him of her mother. Had she been
hard to bear too?
She would call it Cream
Tea. The name was perfect; it suited the thatched roof and the Devon influence.
She’d open up and give it a go, ‘play it by ear’ as Dad used to say. It was his way
of admitting that he had no plan and didn't intend to have one. It used to irritate
her, but she’d started to like the idea of it. She’d buy several sets of
fake
'English style' china teacups and saucers. As well as organic ground coffee she would
serve Devon cream teas, a refreshing change from all those flax seeds and spelt cookies
that often rear their ugly fibrous heads in more rural areas.
Go
with the heart, Lar-ra.
Well
‘the heart’ was in the dog’s bollocks, now. She could be herself here, make as much
noise as she liked. Just be. She clutched the cowboy hat key ring, deep in the pocket
of her jacket and felt closer to her father now he was dead and gone than she did
when he was alive and gone. She heard his voice for the last time. ‘I’m sorry I was
such a crap Dad.’ That’s alright Dad, she thought, you can be happy now.
