Between the covers

Another in a series of short personal fictional stories about a mystery church with a quirky minister in an unnamed community, though not in a galaxy far away. Enjoy.

A face stares up at me from a large bowl of Bouillabaisse, a French seafood stew — the version before me with a wonderful west coast touch added — as I lunch with Gladys, our church musician and choir director. When I say “a face,” I mean that clam shells bathed with pieces of halibut, crab, and oysters, all stewed in a tomato-saffron broth, look like a human face, not a recognizable face, but a face all the same — shells become ears, the tomato broth a vivid skin-like veil that shrouds the fresh seafood below. Seafood is a new culinary experience for me. Not raised by the water on any coast, I am, so far, loving it.

This is the first time that Gladys and I have found time to sit down and talk about music in our little church. She is Welsh, blessed with a broad Rhondda Valley accent, with an intelligent humour nestled beneath a forceful personality. I am unsure how she ended up here, a long way from the colliery hills and valleys of her youth. She remembers the large Welsh men’s choruses in those places where singing brought communities together. Singing tunes like “Cwm Rhondda,” and “Ar Hyd Y Nos,” she never found a ladies chorus for herself. She tells me they do exist in some places. She trained as a music teacher, a profession she will continue till her dying day. She loves it, and I am told she is an excellent teacher.

We enjoy our meal at our little bookstore/café, “Between the Covers.” (Some call it “slipping between the sheets.”) Originally a 1950s era three bed/one bath house previously owned by the McLeods who owned the hardware store back in the day, the house was purchased by two women, Allie and Brenda, who converted it into a restaurant and bookshop. A brochure by the cash register describes Between the Covers as a place to feed the body and the imagination, any way you wish.

“Thanks for joining us for choir practice the other night” said Gladys. “You have a lovely voice. Have you sung in a choir before?”

“Honestly, I have not, but I am keen to give it a try. I don’t read music, however. Will that be a problem?”

“No, not really. Many choir directors now record parts on tape so singers can practice at home or sing along while driving. Reading music helps, but it’s not necessary.”

“Well that’s good. What sort of music do you have in mind?”

“There’s two sorts I want to work on with the group. There’s choir anthems of course, but I really want to help the congregation sing hymns and songs, some traditional repertoire like “Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven,” and “The Lord’s My Shepherd,” and  “Crown Him With Many Crowns.” I also want to introduce some newer texts still with familiar tunes. I would like to be able to sing these both in unison and in parts.”

“That sounds fine, and thankfully, I know these pieces of music, at least I know the tunes.”

“We need texts that tell the Christian story in new ways, in narrative forms, with room for warmth and personal expression.”

“By that I guess you mean, Elvis?”

“Not my first thought, though ‘Love Me Tender’ has calmed many a damaged heart. Also Hank Williams’ ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.’ But those are solo tunes.”

As we chat, the front door swings open letting in a warm breeze with a few leaves. In walk two police officers, Janet and Will. We met recently when someone set the phone booth at the grocery store on fire. Their calm and quick reaction saved the larger building from serious damage. The pair chatted with other customers eventually making their way towards the back of the store, searching the bookshelves for something, or someone, I presumed.

“I wonder what they want” whispered Gladys.

“Possibly lunch? Or they want to read a book. You know, ‘Crime and Punishment’, or an ‘Ellery Queen’ mystery.”

After that rather turbulent meeting last week about the War in the Woods, amidst  speculation about who torched the phone booth, everyone is on edge.

“Maybe they should read ‘The Pink Panther” I suggested.

“I think that’s a movie, not a book. Anyway, back to the meeting, I thought it was poorly run. It didn’t feel like a safe place to ask tough questions. A number of speakers got shouted down; the information circulated ahead of time was poorly written and not distributed in time for people to read; it was mostly anecdotal with no summary of local history.”

“We were all clutching at straws trying to find a solution for a problem no one could articulate” I thought aloud.

“We could have used a Welsh unionist in the chair, but that would have skewed things a bit I suspect. Our mayor isn’t up to the task. But who else is there?”

“You could have offered to help!” Gladys is widely respected in the community though she rarely seeks the spotlight.

“In your dreams, and my nightmares. Now, back to music. I think I think we should invite local musicians — I can think of a few — to write something for our choir. A commission.”

“That . . . is an inspiring idea. What would the parameters be?”

“Something around 3-5 minutes long; something for choir, hopefully a soloist, with piano accompaniment, and possibly another instrument, something relevant and meaningful to our community, something to bring us together, something beautiful.”

“Examples would include . . . what?”

“Hmm. ‘Song For The Mira’ from Cape Breton, or Ian Tyson’s ‘Four Strong Winds.’ Alberta setting. Both speak to the head through the heart. Both have a strong sense of place.”

 “I get it. Local, and more. So how about the ‘Log Drivers’ Waltz?’”

“Yes, that’ll go over well with one crowd I suppose. We could pair it with ‘If I Got A Hammer.’ Have you always been a joker?”

“All right, I think we are on the same page. Your idea is great. I will hunt around for some prize money.”

Could music somehow bring opposing sides of the woods controversy together? Sort of like Karajan conducting Beethoven’s Ninth as the Berlin wall fell. Or Palestinian and Jewish musicians performing together on the border between Palestine and Israel.

—Our server, Allie, appeared beside our table.

“So how was the seafood?”’ she came to take our dishes away hoping we will order dessert with coffee.”

“Marvellous as always” replied Gladys. By the way, what are the constabulary looking for today? They didn’t sit down to visit I see.”

“They’ve been in a few times lately, talking to people, trying to get a sense of where people are at with the whole woods business. They bought a history of west coast logging today. I guess they think that someone is trying to send a message to these logging companies, those multi-national corporations. I’m sure you agree that things can’t keep going as they stand right now — massive clearcuts, old growth forest destroyed before our eyes, way beyond any hope of replanting; no serious attempt at selective harvesting. And don’t get me going on raw log exports.”

“Sounds like you’ve done your research Allie,” Gladys offered.

Concerned that she may have said too much Allie quickly returned to her mission:

“Cheesecake anyone?”

“Not for me thanks. I’m full for now” I replied.

And I am full, not only of seafood, but also full of strong opinions, or at least one very strong opinion. I expect to hear more in the next few days and weeks. Who knew that I would find myself in a who-dun-it so soon in this little town, my first church assignment.  Bring on Clouseau; hey there Sherlock; I could use some help here.

Meanwhile, something in me really likes the plan Gladys dreamed up. By magic, or through music, we’ll get this sorted. Hopefully.

Others in the series are listed here.

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