He was lost. Despite his claim that he had brought a pack of Wolf Cubs to a nearby summer camp at Sandy Lake, (‘a few years ago B.K.- that’s Before Kids, Angus,’ he told him patronizingly). He had clearly forgotten the way. In his confusion, he seemed to need constant female assurance that his was the voice of unimpeachable authority, even when he was manifestly wrong. Celine and Sadie both colluded in this deception, overlooking the inconsistencies that punctuated his chatter. Celine called this ‘Making Allowances’: after all, Simon was demonstrably insecure. Angus called it ‘Suffering A Fool Gladly.’
After several wrong turnings, they eventually arrived at the lodge. It was set deep in the woods and built at a time before strict limits were placed upon development in the national park. The building was, thought Angus, as he clambered stiffly out of the car, a rebuke to the silent encroaching wilderness surrounding it, fiery with fall colouring. It was an ugly, formidable two-storey structure of timber and stone set foursquare in a clearing strewn with gravel, at the end of a former logging road. It might have been a successful homesteader’s first permanent home but for the satellite dish on a side wall.
‘What took you so long?’ A bald old man, a look of choleric indignation on his red face, called from the verandah.
‘Hi, Uncle Don,’ replied Celine, as she struggled to extricate the box of provisions. ‘We got held up– traffic was bad,’ she fibbed.
‘No traffic up here. Unless you call deer and bears traffic.’ The scorn of incredulity.
‘No, in town,’ said Celine vaguely.
‘Well, come on in, now that you’re here. Aggie’s got food on the stove. We eat at five. She’s out back in the cabin, fussing over things for you.’ It did not look as if he approved of fussing, but he let himself be embraced by his niece. The old man surveyed Angus as if at a loss for words.
‘I’m Simon Smail, Don.’ Simon came suddenly between them, shouldering them apart and pumping the bewildered older man’s arm vigorously. ‘I can tell we’re going to get on real well, outdoorsman to outdoorsman. That’s my family,’ he continued, making a vague expansive gesture in their general direction at the foot of the steps. ‘We brought our own food for the cabin. So what’s for dinner?’
‘Why’d you do that? We got lots of food. What sort of hosts do you think we are? Huh?’
He sounded more hurt than angry. Angus, who had yet to be introduced, saw that Celine forbore to explain that Simon had not listened to her explanation that the adjoining cabin had neither a kitchen nor electricity, and that their meals would be provided for them.
‘Oh, well,’ said Angus agreeably, ‘I’m sure we can put the food to good use.’
‘And who are you?’ The old man turned abruptly to Angus, fixing him with a look of active dislike.
‘I’m Angus Seyton, Mr. Monaghan. Celine’s friend.’
