Frank often wondered in the following weeks and months whether he and Tom would have grown so quickly into close friends had George Wells not provided the initial impetus. For in the running afoul of Wells and his group of "management sucks" as Frank referred to them, Tom had earned the admiration of his new partners, who harboured a number of grievances they wouldn't normally have shared with a summer replacement. The incident had placed him on the right side of the fence as far as they were concerned and this united their opinions on a range of subjects, touching on management rights and abuses in general, and George Wells and his cohorts in particular. The situation at the depot didn't improve as the summer wore on, and on two other occasions Frank found himself taking Tom's part in confrontations contrived by one or another of the "rat patrol." His avoidance of those men had never endeared him to them and they began now to describe Tom as "Wilson's little pal." This labelling lent greater cohesion to their burgeoning friendship, already flourishing within the confines of the steel box, where defences and pretenses tend to break down or become transparent in the magnified, closed atmosphere.

Once they locked themselves in at seven AM there was neither relief nor escape from one another for ten hours. Those hours could drag on infinitely within the bleak confines of their employment. Frank had found this especially so in the past when he had been poorly matched with a guard. Being somewhat introverted, with a propensity to solitude, Frank would have sooner spent those hours alone than be locked up with someone he preferred to keep at a distance. On the other hand, in a one-on-one situation with the right person, Frank loved to talk and discuss a wide range of topics. In the case of Tom McDermott, Frank never found close contact a hardship. They found each other's company neither unpleasant nor boring, the younger man was conversant on a variety of subjects and politely attentive on others. The numerous quiet spells were not sullen uncomfortable silences as Frank had experienced in the past, but were used most often as periods of reflection, leading to agreement or conclusion on their discussions.

And so the two men came, in time, to think of themselves as partners, and this partnership once begun progressed quickly. The inevitable questioning and testing of attitudes that occurs during the formation of a relationship elicited personal histories and rough personality sketches; and through a series of hints, subtle tests and trials each came to know and predict the other's responses. A bond of mutual trust was thus forged between them.

Usually when they stopped for coffee in the morning now, one of them would pick up the local newspaper and they would read and discuss this at length, being always careful at the end of the day to stop somewhere before returning to the depot, so they could dispose of the forbidden reading material. The crew spent so many hours on the open highway when they were working the regular Monday-Wednesday-Friday route, that Frank saw no harm in violating this rule while in transit. It was during their review of world events, political behaviour and scandal that Frank became aware of an intellectual imbalance between them. Though Tom was twelve years Frank's junior, his years of knocking around had instilled in him a street savvy that neatly complemented the university education he was enjoying so much. His views on human nature were such that he had a skeptical or cynical explanation for just about everything. It was clear that he read the news merely to pass the time, for he invariably concluded with some remark about the inaccuracy and possibly deliberate fabrication of the news stories they discussed each day. To take any of it seriously, or even at face value, would betray one as naive or gullible. Tom could always spot an angle in a political announcement, or a failure to consider all the facts in any article. One should always begin with the premise "how much of this is true?" he once said, "and never, simply whether or not it might be true." And yet he took no great relish in debunking popular causes or beliefs, he was no verbose malcontent, but rather added as an afterword that after all was said, they had no real idea what was happening; it could all be a complete hoax and they musn't let any of it concern them.

Frank was, on the other hand, more ingenuous, likely to accept things at face value, to trust in the printed page, and to forecast events on the strength of what he read. Tom would then re-interpret for him from within his own pessimistic world-view, at the conclusion of which they would laugh, Frank conceding the point to him. This became something of a game between them, so that Frank would deliberately bait Tom, reading him the essential part of some news item, all in apparent innocence, to provoke his cynical wise-cracks and ironic observations. Tom didn't like to be conned.

"Tom, the Minister of Finance says here the recession is over."

"Right, that's because we're now entering a depression."

"No, seriously. It says here several economic indicators from Stats-Can prove that the economy has already achieved its lowest point and has now begun to accelerate once more."

"You know what that means? It means they can't predict anything, but they're getting scared about the situation so they're hoping they can generate a little activity with bullshit! And when the recession is over, they would have us believe it to be due to their efforts. I think it's fortunate they don't have as much control over things as they would have us believe, Frank."

In the face of adversity, moreover, the two men stood together well. Each possessed an adaptable nature and an uncomplaining toughness that kept them together, rather than at each other's throats when things went badly, like the day the air conditioning went awry.

The air handling systems in armoured trucks are notoriously undependable and will inflict upon hapless guards either freezing cold or unbearably stuffy conditions, depending on the season and the nature of the problem. In winter the situation was never too serious, for though the heater was never adequate during a cold snap, Frank dressed for long hours of inactivity in the cold and faced it stolidly. In summer however, it wasn't possible to prepare, and during hot weather the van was always uncomfortable. Such was the case for two days in late June. Tom and Frank had two pickups to make Saturday morning and when they quit work at noon the mercury had climbed to a humid 95°F. The heat continued through Sunday and when Frank arrived Monday morning his eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and his shirt already showed the tell-tale signs of his discomfort. When the truck was on the expressway headed west, Frank stood looking out the rear window at the receding image of the city. Interspersed with glass and concrete towers, it lay like an island of greenery under a shimmering hazy blue dome, giving it a hothouse appearance. To the north across the river the rolling hills of the Laurentians were an indistinct blue mass, which to a stranger entering the city, they might have been mistaken for an encroaching cloud bank in the heavy air.

About this time it became obvious there was something wrong with the air conditioner. Frank checked with François, who replied that though there wasn't enough cool air it wasn't too hot in the cab. In the rear of the truck however it was becoming very warm. By their third stop the outside temperature had already reached it's predicted high for the day and it was only marginally cooler inside. Frank abandoned his hat and tie, leaving his collar and sleeves loose, and invited Tom to do likewise. Their shirts quickly became soaked wet and stuck to their backs and sides. Their hair became plastered to their scalps, which tickled with trickling sweat as though lousy, and despite wiping their foreheads until their shirtsleeves were sopping, the stinging saline ran into their eyes and dripped off their noses. They bought large bottles of cola and having drained them, filled the containers with water at the next stop. It was important to keep the water replaced, Frank emphasised, or they would begin to feel nauseous.

"My God, you guys look awful," exclaimed the vault clerk at the Royal Bank. "Don't you have air conditioning?"

"We do, but it's not keeping up today I'm afraid," Tom replied as pleasantly as he could.

"Why don't you sit in the lunchroom for a few minutes," she invited. "It's cool in there."

"No thanks ma'am. We'll break for lunch soon and we'll find a cool spot then."

The situation didn't improve much through the day, but neither did it worsen, and Frank slept the sleep of the dead that night despite the continued oppressive climate.

Upon arrival at work Wednesday morning Frank checked immediately with Claude to see that the truck had been serviced over night. He was assured it had been; the system had been low on freon and was now operating normally. The morning went well, and after lunch Frank and Tom were hunkered over, on the edges of their seats, playing cribbage on a neatly constructed stack of money bags between them. They sometimes did this, using a tiny folding crib board that Tom smuggled in in his pocket.

"Fifteen two, fifteen four and three is seven and the jack is eight," Frank calculated, then, "Jesus, is it getting warm in here?" he wondered as he pegged.

"Yeah, it is, just in the last few minutes or so. I wish we'd get a storm, then maybe this weather would break."

By two o'clock it was obvious the air conditioner had broken down entirely. François was finding it very uncomfortable in the cab, surrounded by heavy glass and unable to open any windows. He shut the air off completely and opened vents instead, but because there was no way of creating a draft, this accomplished very little. The heat accumulated steadily within the box, turning it into a veritable torture chamber. The men rode in silence, counting off seconds until their next stop and a brief respite.

"Hey Frank, this is just like in The Bridge Over the River Kwai. We're locked in the hot box because we've defied the fat camp commandant." Tom giggled as they made their way through heavy traffic back to the depot. "Maybe we'll be life-time buddies now because we endured 'the cooler' together during the war."

"Yeah maybe, but seriously Tom, I've been meaning to mention to you."

"What Frank?"

"Your deodorant's not making it." They laughed in delirium at their foolishness, the heat making them giddy, yet the experience bringing them somehow closer, removing whatever final vestiges of formality there might have remained between the two.

Tom and Frank and François shared advice and compared notes on a variety of personal projects. The working-class background common to each of them had through necessity given them a rich education in simple construction, home improvement, appliance and auto repairs, and a wide assortment of related skills. They had improved over the years, through first-hand trial and error, or an inherited ability to make do. These lessons they shared freely amongst themselves. Of the two partners, Tom was the more knowledgeable in this, for he was a valley farm boy in origin and had knocked about the trades some. On the other hand Frank was older and had taken on the duties of a husband and father quite young, from which he assumed a superior wisdom that Tom neither questioned nor resented.

Frank quietly admired Tom's superior experience however, for while he had exchanged his youth for the responsibilities of marriage and parenthood, Tom had grown up wild and free. Being the youngest of three children, there had been little expected of him in the way of chores, and so following the example of a roving and incorrigible father he had begun absenting himself from the family home for periods of time while still in his early teens. He had learned young about girls and all of the illicit activities available to a young man of the streets, and he had been into more scrapes than he cared to remember. His record had remained clean however, due to the intervention of parents who would go to any length to keep their boy from harm, and perhaps no less, to the intervention of Lady Luck. Eventually he had not returned from one of his lengthy absences, and had called home to say he had quit school and was living in town, where he had a steady job. A series of live-in girlfriends had kept him from harm while he bounced from one dead-end employment to another, until he met and quietly married Leila. She, believing him capable of greater things, convinced him to return to school.

Tom studied with a seriousness that surprised his former associates, reading avidly, and consuming knowledge thirstily. He constantly improved upon his speech, so that it became a colourful blend of academic and intellectual vocabulary interspersed with a selective use of street argot. It lent him the appearance of being widely informed.

Frank derived a vicarious experience from Tom's tales of past exploits and adventures, but these were not offered boastfully; they were used simply in a casual matter-of-fact way to illustrate some point in the conversation. He would shock Frank by admitting and describing his involvement in situations that Frank could never have pictured himself in, yet Frank never let on. Instead he listened soberly and smiled knowingly as such tales were recounted as though he were in complete agreement.

Tom began to suggest, at first tentatively, and then more forcefully, that he and Frank begin to see one another socially. Perhaps they could go for a beer after work? Frank begged off, explaining that he went straight home after work, a habit he rarely broke. An evening with the ladies then? Nothing elaborate, just an evening of drinks, cards maybe? Frank drew back each time the subject came up. He knew from past experience that this was sure to fail. Diane would find something unacceptable in Tom and his wife. They were too young, for starters, and even if Tom made no reference to his past, she would spot his background. She was good at that sort of thing. Then there was the unknown element. Frank hadn't met Leila himself, and so couldn't begin to guess at his wife's reaction to her. No, better to leave things as they were, and avoid the embarrassing snub that Diane would deliver sooner or later. Frank valued this work-related friendship, and he had no intention of jeopardizing it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Monday morning as the truck rolled westward at seven o'clock Tom approached Frank with a problem. Frank and François had been recalling an incident that occurred while they were building on François' cottage. The conversation had ended just as they closed the rear doors and Tom had been silent ever since.

"Frank, you know how you and François work together on projects when you need an extra hand? Well, I was wondering if you could help me out with something tomorrow. Leila has the day off and we're planning to go to the farm and take in the hay. It's all cut and raked and if it lies on the ground too long it may be ruined. It's already pretty late for a first cut, and if it gets too dry we'll lose the grain off it."

"Can you and Leila and your father not do it?" Frank asked quietly, thinking of Diane's reaction to his spending the day away from home.

"Well, that's the problem. Mom called this morning before I left for work to tell me the baler broke down yesterday morning. She said a chain broke; it must be the main drive chain from the sound of it. Anyhow, the old man took off to look for parts right after lunch and hasn't been heard from since. So, not only will he not be there, but we have to fix machinery before we start as well."

"Surely your father will be back by tomorrow?"

"There's no guarantee of that. He could be gone three or four days. Mom says it's been quite awhile since he took off like this, so who knows? Besides, if it's the main drive chain that's broke he's going to have a high time finding a replacement part. That's an old baler. I'll probably have to jerry-rig it some way."

"I guess it will make a long day, if you have to fix machinery and then draw in all the hay, just the two of you. I won't see you stuck Tom, but there'll be hell to pay at home, I think."

"Bring her along," Tom coaxed him. "It'll do her good to get out of the city for a while, and she needn't do anything, just green around for the day."

"Yes, you're right, it wouldn't hurt her any."

But when Tom and Leila arrived next morning before six Diane was still in bed and had no intention of accompanying them. Frank didn't want to invite her, but had done so, hoping to placate her, for she had been angry at his plans. She had reminded him that she didn't like farms and had gone into a tirade about how last time they visited a farm there had been boots with feces on them inside the kitchen door, and how the men's clothes, the air, and the very food they ate had been permeated by the smell of manure. Frank remembered. Diane had acted badly the entire day and they had never been in touch with the farm couple again.

So Frank rose quietly, dressed and left without a word to the sleeping figure on the bed, and was waiting in the laneway when Tom turned the corner of the street in his aging half-ton. The truck stopped on the street and both people got out.

"Guess we won't need my car after all Tom, Diane's not coming. She had some other things she wanted to do today."

"Oh good, so everything's cool then?"

"Sure. Cool."

A tall girl wearing blue jeans and a Mickey Mouse tee-shirt, the back of which was covered midlength in flowing straight brown hair strode up to him and thrust out her hand. "I'm Leila." Her smile lit up her entire face, causing her eyes to flash warmly.

Frank was taken aback somewhat. Tom spoke often of his wife and Frank knew they shared many common interests. He had been expecting someone who might be described as a tom-boy, but he was not prepared for the image that stood before him now. She was beautiful, not in any cover girl, commercially prescribed sense perhaps, but had a clean unpainted out-doorsy look about her. She was big, robust and healthy, and as Frank always described her afterward, infectiously happy.

Frank became aware he was gaping, just as Tom chided, "Let's go, Mom will have breakfast waiting."

He and Leila hopped into the cab, leaving Frank the seat next to the window. The truck was already in motion when he closed the door, and he rolled the window down and rested his elbow in the opening. He felt good; his day off, a beauty for a change, and he was headed out to a day in the country without Diane.

The trip took forty-five minutes, during which Leila turned her undivided attention on Frank. He had been unaware how many interesting facts could be learned by asking questions about one's background. In return he acquired a wealth of information about her. Leila had grown up on a small farm in the upper valley, her father subsidizing the produce of their rocky farmstead by plowing roads for the township. She and seven siblings had been raised in a tiny log house that dated back to the days of the early timber trade. Upon graduation she and two high-school friends had taken an apartment in the city where Leila had found employment with a high-tech firm. Her supervisors liked her; she was steady and reliable, and thought enough of her employers not to leave the firm shorthanded when there was work to be done, so that this summer she had been permitted to use her annual leave a day at a time, on Tuesdays so that she might share Tom's day off.

The truck turned off the paved road and for several miles followed a narrow stretch of gravel road. It was poorly maintained, the weeds and growth along the sides reaching to the windows of the truck and often whipping Frank's arm as the truck swerved to avoid pot-holes. Tom managed to maintain a good rate of speed however, by riding the centre of the road and expertly dodging between the softer spots where the gravel had been kicked out, leaving sharp-edged holes. Tom down-shifted a gear and the truck finally turned left through a gap in the second growth white cedar that grew on both sides of the road. The lane consisted of a set of wheel tracks worn smooth, so that the center appeared as a lump above the roadway, the weeds and grass that grew there clipped neatly by the passing of low undercarriages. The lane emptied into a large clearing in the trees and the ground began to rise at that point. They drove through what appeared to be a cemetery for discarded automobiles and outmoded machinery, and finally entered a yard where the house and buildings stood. Frank looked about him as he descended from the truck.

He stood atop a rise in the land, at the toe of what appeared to be a horseshoe-shaped clearing of perhaps fifty acres in size. The ground obviously got better beyond the house for there was abundant growth, the freshly-cut fields already showing swaths of new green, and the entire area was surrounded by deciduous trees in full summer foliage, the shaded parts appearing in the distance as a misty blue-green that brightened into green-gold where the sunlight caught the crowns. Frank stood transfixed, trying to picture the panorama before him dressed in various seasonal colours.

A woman's voice calling from the house brought him out of his reverie and he turned towards it. A very short, and somewhat stout woman stood holding the screen door open, exhorting Tom "get a move on, or the meal would be cold." Tom bent over her as he passed to peck her on the head.

"Look who was sitting at the table when I came down this morning," she said quietly to Tom, then turned to greet Frank warmly, "You must be Frank. I'm Tom's mother. Everybody calls me May. You can do the same."

Frank followed Tom and Leila into a large country kitchen, one end of which was taken up by a large table, set for a meal. At one end sat a grizzled old man with a shock of white hair and craggy eyebrows to match. His face and forearms, where they protruded from the faded half-rolled sleeves of the blue workshirt, were the colour and texture of tanned leather. He eyed them balefully as they entered and said nothing. He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke upward to form a cloud over the table. Frank noticed by the set of his jaw that he probably had no teeth. Tom placed himself in front of the old man.

"When did you get home?" he demanded.

"About an hour or two ago, why?"

"Well, if I'd known you were going to be here I wouldn't have asked Frank to give up his day off to help us, would I?"

Frank began to feel uncomfortable. He blurted, "That's okay Tom. I don't mind, really."

"Excuse us, young fella. We'll get to you in a minute," interjected the old man. "Now, did I tell you I'd see you here Tuesday morning? Did I … or not?"

"You did. But that was before you fucked off for three days without telling anybody you were going."

The old man ignored this. "And am I here now, when I said I would be, or not?" he demanded.

"You are but …"

"Then that's the end of it. I been on this earth long enough I don't have to take any shit from any god-damn pups." He turned now to Frank who had seated himself at the table next to Leila. "And now young fella, I would like to say welcome to you. Thanks for coming, though how these mixups occur I have no idea." He glared malevolently over Frank's head to where his wife hovered by the stove. "An extra hand will make light work of it. What is it they call you, again?"

"Frank Wilson."

"Well, we're sure glad to have you Frank. Was a time we had lots of help here at haying time, but the last few years there's been just us. Course it's a lot easier with the bales than it was with the old loose hay."

May McDermott placed a steaming bowl of fried potatoes on the table and returned to the stove. Leila got up and began to carry various containers to the table as well. There was a plate of cold sliced pork, a covered dish of scrambled eggs, freshly sliced bread, and a pitcher of cold milk. Home-made pickles and relishes appeared as well, and finally the largest teapot Frank had ever seen was placed next to May's plate.

"Would anyone like their tea now?" she enquired when she was seated.

"I'll wait," replied Tom.

"No thanks," said Frank.

The old man passed his cup and saucer down the table where it was filled with scalding hot, boot-black tea. Frank watched, fascinated, as he poured the contents of the cup into his saucer and then blew on it as he balanced it in one hand before his face. He began to sup it loudly. He continued until everyone had served himself and had begun to eat, then having finished his tea, began to reach for dishes and serve himself from them.

When this required a long reach, Tom suggested, "If you need something there Dad, we'll be happy to pass it to you."

The old man did not reply, he simply continued to pile his plate, and he bestowed on Tom an insolent stare.

"By the way, how did you get home?" Tom persisted. Frank wished he'd let the matter drop, and ease the tension in the room.

"Why do you want to know that?" his father returned, testily.

"Well, I noticed your truck isn't here, that's all."

"I left it in the village. Maybe we'll go in later and get it … or it can wait until tomorrow, I don't care."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dad. Of course we'll take you to get your truck."

Later when the meal was finished and Leila and Frank found themselves alone for a moment in the yard, Frank asked her, "Is he always like that; so cross and cantankerous?"

"Old Tom? Most of the time. Maybe a little more today because you're here. He shows off some. But you know, this will all come out in time. In a week or so May will be able to tell you where he was and what he was doing. Nothing much probably, just visiting one of his cronies and got plastered. And don't let the bickering between him and Tom fool you either; those two are pretty tight. The old man has won Tom's undying loyalty more than once I can tell you."

At that moment the other two joined them and together they crossed the yard to where a faded red baling machine stood outside the door of a small building. A cover had been removed from the side of it revealing a set of broad-toothed sprockets. The heavy flat drive chain lay across the top of the machine.

"This old chain has had it really," Tom explained to Frank, "I had to fix it twice last summer; replaced two links, the last two old spares we had."

"I know where there's another of these machines, down near Welton's Corners," added Old Tom, "but when I checked it out Sunday the drive chain was already gone out of it. I guess we'll have to wire it up some way, Tom."

"Maybe, but I got a better idea. Are those welding torches still around that I brought here that time? You know," he added pointedly.

"Yes, they're in the shop…at the back behind that old door and boards and things."

Tom entered the little building and could be heard rummaging around inside, presently he returned, pushing a cart on which were oxygen and acetylene cylinders and a cutting torch. "There's still gas in them," he declared happily. He parked the cart next to the baler and disappeared once more into the shed, returning with a piece of flat steel stock of about the same width as the chain. He unwound the hoses and began to fiddle with the taps and gauges on the welder. He began by removing the broken piece from the chain, heating the next link red hot and folding it back carefully with a hammer and a dull chisel. He heated and flattened out the broken part on the vise until it could be used as a pattern for a new link. Tom used a scratch awl to trace out the piece on his stock metal, and added a little extra where the steel would be folded to compensate for the heavier stock. Then he began to cut it out, and Frank marvelled in a few minutes how quickly the new section of chain was taking shape. It was allowed to cool slowly, then Tom's father placed it in the vise, and with a selection of files smoothed it into a perfect copy. This done, Tom reheated the ends once more, rolling them carefully with the hammer until the new piece would readily form part of the ancient chain, heated it one last time and then hammered it into place. The job had taken less than half an hour and while Old Tom put back the chain, checked to be sure that the timing hadn't been lost, and replaced the cover, Frank admired the way the two worked together, and privately envied Tom's talent around machinery.

"There," the old man cried when the last screw had been replaced, "and I'll be dammed if it isn't a better part than what came on it!"

"Made of better stuff anyway," added Tom. "Let's hitch her up and try a couple of bales before we go get the wagon. I'm sure it will be okay though, unless something else is broken." They began to work at about 8:30; Old Tom drove the tractor and the others rode the wagon, carrying the bales to the rear as they chugged steadily to the top of the conveyor. Frank found there wasn't really enough work for three, each of them taking a turn and then standing by while the others toted their share. This became even more apparent as the wagon filled up toward the front until finally Frank and Leila sat atop the load and talked as Tom carefully built the last bit by himself. When unloading into the barn however, the extra pair of hands became more valuable, and sped things up a lot. There was no slow waiting for the baler to do its job, and the load could be stowed away as quickly as they could move it. The result was that by lunch-time they had made several trips to the barn and had completed more than half the field. May McDermott must have been watching their progress while they unloaded the wagon, for as the last bale was sent into the loft she called out from the kitchen door.

"Leila….Leila, tell those men to come on and wash up; dinner's near ready."

Leila disconnected the electrical cord to the conveyer and called out, "Dinner" as she turned toward the house. Frank was first to the barn door and as he waited for the others he watched Leila's backside cross the barnyard to the house. The heavy faded denim supported and enhanced the shapeliness of her thighs and buttocks. She took long purposeful strides which gave an appearance of power to her large muscular frame.

"My God," Frank muttered under his breath, then was startled to realize Tom had crept up silently behind him as he daydreamed. He flashed his usual good-natured grin and Frank knew he had been caught out. He knew he looked guilty, but this appeared to amuse Tom even more.

"Nothing like a pair of blue-jeans, eh Frank?"

Frank was able to laugh then, but when they reached the house Tom's first words were, "Frank likes your jeans."

Leila turned and looked directly into Frank's face, which was now flushed hot and his eyes had begun to water. He knew he looked foolish but Tom and Leila were laughing at him affectionately, and in such obvious good spirits he too began to laugh. This girl was something of a novelty for him. He had never known anyone who handled her sexuality so effortlessly and with such self-assurance.

Leila filled an enamel-ware dish pan with warm water from the sink and hefted it onto the counter near where Frank still stood. She placed a heavy towel beside it and a bar of soap on top.

"Here, Frank," she giggled some more when she looked at him, "You wash up first."

Frank did as he was instructed, first pushing his sleeves past the elbows and washing and rinsing forearms in the grey soapy water. When he had dried them and reset his sleeves Tom took the basin and refilled it and Frank took his seat at the table where he had sat in the morning. As he gazed out the window he realized that from Old Tom's customary place one could survey not only the barn and yard, but down the lane toward any approaching visitor as well.

The old man entered the kitchen now, strode immediately to his chair and sat down. Frank noticed that the bottoms of his sleeves were wet.

"He must have washed up at the barn," Frank thought. The chair he occupied had arms, and he positioned himself slightly to one side, the better to watch the window, lit a cigarette and fell into a reverie. Frank regarded him more closely now. He was seventy, or perhaps less, for the wind and sun had weathered his face and arms, obscuring his age beneath the years of hard work. He had been freshly shaved when Frank met him that morning, but a white shadow was now creeping onto his cheeks and neck. The skin, above the line where his hat normally rested, was of a shocking whiteness when contrasted with the leathery face so that it seemed to emit an eerie glow. It didn't seem possible for his skin to be that colour naturally. His frame was spare, but he was terribly strong, as evidenced by his forearms, the sinews visible under the taught skin, the hands appearing to be too large for his body. One arm lay on the table next to Frank and he noticed fresh cuts on two of the knuckles; the others showed evidence of similar injury. They had been torn and skinned so often that they seemed always in a state of healing, so that the skin barked off at the slightest blow. Frank realized he was staring, and then, as though sensing his scrutiny, the old man turned to him abruptly.

"You know, Frank, I was just thinking: if everything goes like it did this morning, we ought to be done with the hay at about four o'clock. Are you in any great rush to get home?"

Frank felt trapped. What did he have in mind? A long delay? Of course it didn't really matter, since Diane would be on the warpath whatever time he got home.

"I guess not, why?"

"I'd like to go to the village to get my truck. I'll tell you, there's a cooler full of beer in it. I picked it up yesterday for you young folks. Also there's a bottle of rye, but that's for me. Now, if you wouldn't mind to drive the tractor for awhile this afternoon, May and I can take the young lad's truck, and be back here in three quarters of an hour, and we can all have a few drinks when we're done."

"And we can go swimming!" Leila cried. "Frank, you won't believe it, we have the most incredible swimming hole, there's even trout in it! You can stay, can't you?" Once again her infectious enthusiasm reached him.

"Sure," Frank grinned at her effervescence. The mention of trout sparked his interest. He had eaten trout, at François' Quebec cottage, but he had never actually caught one.

"Do you mean there are brook trout near here?" he asked Tom who now stood behind Leila.

"Well, we put them there," Tom said, "there's an old pit on the next hundred acres. Dad owns it. It's filled up with water. Anyway, one summer when I was, oh, about ten, my brother Andy and I spent most of our summer over there, clearing stumps, and making a little beach at one end, and a rock ladder out of the deep end, and we made a little lake, sort of. We used to camp out over there. One night, when it was almost dark, Dad came over, whooping and hollering for us. He'd been away all day." A flicker of mischief crossed his face as he paused, and the old man shot him the same angry glare Frank had seen that morning. Tom grinned and continued. "Anyway, he had a plastic garbage bag in his hand, full of water. He sat it down and opened the top but I couldn't see anything, it was getting dark and the bag was dark green. When I got my flashlight and looked into the bag it was almost black with little fish. Speckled trout, he said they were. So we poured them in and by next summer we were catching them. Been there ever since."

"Mind you," Old Tom pointed out, "they're only there because nobody knows they're there. If word ever got around they'd be gone pretty quick."

"I'm sure," Frank nodded gravely.

Dinner was boiled potatoes and roast meat and corn on the cob. Apple pie and strong black tea were for afterward. Frank surprised himself by eating heartily. He was unaccustomed to very much at lunchtime, and they had begun the day with a heavy breakfast. When they were finished Frank noticed that each person carried his plates and cup to the sink and stacked them there, before retrieving his cap and leaving the house. He did the same, and as he and Tom were leaving May stopped them.

"I'll have sandwiches ready when you're through Tom. If you're going swimming you'll want a bite to take with you."

"Thanks Mom." Tom leaned over to kiss her head as he passed, then outside, "she used to do that for us when we were kids. Now whenever Leila and I are here in summer, helping out, we have to take our supper over with us. You're sure you're in no hurry eh, Frank?"

"Absolutely none," he replied mightily, "it'll be more fun than I've had in a long time."

The afternoon passed, if anything, more quickly than the morning had. By three o'clock they were heading back out for what promised to be the last load, or nearly so, and the old man left Frank to drive as arranged. When they had unhitched the baler and were drawing the full wagon to the barn they saw the two half-tons return, and Old Tom carried a Coca-Cola cooler to the house and placed it on the grass by the door. While they began to unload, he took the tractor to the field and retrieved the baler. By the time he had done that and put it and the tractor away under a low sloping roof attached to the barn wall, the others had finished unloading. Tom and Frank pushed the wagon by hand into its customary place in the corner of the yard.

"Done," Tom shouted as he tossed his cap in the air, and then catching Leila's eye he began to race her to the house. She, though having a good start, was no match for his superior size and speed and they arrived at the beer cooler at the same time, Tom scrabbling into the ice for a beer with one hand, pushing Leila away with the other. He came up with a blue can in one hand, and after shaking it vigorously, tried to pop the tab with his thumb, Leila doing her best to prevent him from doing so. He ducked and retreated slightly, then whirled once, opening the can as he did so, and the beer spewed in a steady stream at his shrieking spouse. She stopped laughing now, her eyes closed, beer dripping from her chin and nose, looking silly. She walked, shaking her dripping hands, to the wall of the house where the garden hose was attached, and picking it up, began to rinse her face and arms under the cold water. She sipped a drink from it, appearing to pay no attention to Tom, who remained just out of range of the nozzle. Finally, she put it down and fetched two beers from the cooler and tossed one underhand to Frank.

May McDermott had been standing inside the screen door watching all of this, and she now informed them that she had dug out their suits and an old one of Andrew's for Frank to wear.

The trail through the woods to the pool was not long, perhaps five minutes' brisk walk. Frank noticed that the terrain they passed through could hardly be termed "woods". It consisted of clumps of second growth cedar; each tapering perfectly upward from a number of small trees around the periphery to a few tall poles in the center, so that each clump appeared from a distance as one perfectly shaped tree. None of it was of any value as lumber, Frank knew, for not even the largest could be economically sawed. The cedar grew sparsely in sandy bare spots, among piles of black-patched, lichen-covered stone and tufts of wiry yellow-green grasses.

They crossed over a patent rail fence, straddling it at the centre where it was lowest, the grey weathered rail sagging obligingly under their weight. As the trees opened out somewhat, here and there were white birch and sumac amongst the ubiquitous cedar. There appeared a long low hillock, as high as a man and covered with the sort of plants associated with poor ground; mullion, hops, wild raspberry and bramble. The trail led over it, and atop the hill Frank stood and stared in rapture. It was a perfect miniature lake! The bedrock had been scraped bare and the hardpan piled into the long hill they stood upon. The stone had been cut in a rectangular shape, perhaps thirty-five or forty paces wide and twice as long, (they stood now beside the long side); the far end sloped upward toward the shoreline where grass grew to the water's edge. The nearest end, in the stillness of the late afternoon, appeared to be quite deep, though the stone bottom could be readily seen through the clear water. As they walked along the stone face Frank peered over the edge into the water; a cloud of dark figures floated lazily along the wall.

When they reached the shallow end, Tom and Frank put the beer cooler they had carried between them on a hand made, rickety pole picnic table that rested in the shade of two silver birch trees. Tom was first into the water, peeling off jeans and shirt to reveal his swim trunks, and taking an expert running dive off the centre of the long wall. Leila and Frank took their time, undressing more slowly while Frank drank in the feel of it; the solitude, the smell of the water, and the hot sun slicing through the tree tops to dapple upon the gently rippling water. He walked carefully in bare feet to where Tom had gone in, where a patch of stone had been carefully swept clean of gravel, and he dove deep, his eyes open. There were no fish nearby now, though he could see bottom clearly. Leila's form flashed past him, her long hair flowing along her back, a trail of silvery bubbles following in her wake, then rising leisurely toward the surface. The water was a lot colder than he had expected, but it felt good after the hot dusty day's work. He scrubbed his face and scalp vigorously with his palms and fingertips, then kicked upwards toward the light. Leila swam with strong steady strokes to the far end where Tom was scaling the rock face using a set of footholds cut into the wall. Frank left them alone, paddled around happily for awhile and then returned to the picnic table for a beer. He pulled the table around some, until it sat in the sun, and was basking drowsily in the warm light when he noticed Old Tom making his way slowly along the trail, hands in his pockets, and watching down into the water as they had done, the whisky bottle tucked under his arm. He sat down in silence, and fetched a plastic glass out of the cooler, which he filled to the top with ice. He carefully drained off the water, then covered the ice with rye and set it aside to melt. Frank watched him light a cigarette.

"How long has this been here Tom?"

"About…um, twenty-five years. The township took that stone out of there to build up the road. There was never a proper road into here before that. It would turn into mudholes in the spring and they would put some material over the mud but it was often not passable. So I bitched and complained until they agreed to build it, and then, since I was the only taxpayer actually living down here, I insisted that I get the contract to supply the stone." He smiled in a conspiratory manner, "I just sent the kids over here every day to count the loads going out. Next spring I was over here one day and I saw it had filled up with water. The boys fixed it all up like you see it now."

"So you grew up here did you Tom?"

"Hell, no! I bought this place during depression times. These two one-hundred acre lots for three hundred dollars. My mother loaned me the money. There was no house nor buildings here; I built all that. Anyway, we moved in here in the winter, 1935 it was, I went to pick up Mother in the sleigh. Yes sir!"

The old man paused and regarded his drink carefully. The melting ice was beginning to stratify with the rye, appearing as pale swirls through the amber liquid. He picked it up and tossed off half the glass, sat looking at it reflectively for a moment more and then drank off the rest. He sat the glass down and continued, obviously warming to the conversation.

"I batched here for eight years before I met my wife. Mother lived here with me, or sometimes with my sister in town. I did all manner of work here; I shoed horses, made tools like axe-handles or cant hooks, I bought and sold horses and livestock, cut posts and rails, anything at all."

Frank stared at him in disbelief.

"You mean to say you never held down a steady job or worked for anyone in your life?"

"I worked for lots of people. I had a steady job as a teamster before I came here, but that didn't pay much, less than a dollar a day. Then later, anytime I could hire out and make a day's pay I did, but you must remember, though there was lots of work then, like farm or labour work, most people didn't pay much; on the farms they didn't pay at all. No sir! You worked for them at a sawing or a threshing, and then they came and helped you. What I used to do was; I'd work for the neighbours around and save up this work, and then I'd have a lot of help coming for a few days at my place. Nowadays, of course, they don't need much help. They have tractors can do all the ploughing, Christ, ploughing, they don't do that anymore. But anyway, they have equipment big enough to do all the disking and planting in about three days, and one man can handle it all alone."

He dumped the ice from his glass and made a fresh drink.

"Now, where was I?"

"People used to come and help."

"Right. We'd have these big gangs, to put up a barn or whatever, and Mother would make meals for however many of us there were, and that's how this place got built. That, and what May and I did together. And you know Frank, there wasn't a year I didn't come ahead a little. I'd have a little put aside in the bank, or another piece of used machinery bought, or some little project done, even if it was just some more stumps pulled or rocks piled in that field we were in today. There was always something each year, you know. It was always kind of satisfying."

"Sure….but to do it without working at a regular job! I've been working for wages since I was sixteen. Seems like I haven't stopped, and I won't either for another thirty years maybe. You must understand, what you've done here, it's well, like freedom. You couldn't do this today! There are too many little laws and traps, regulations and inspectors."

"Well, mind you, we have never lived like royalty here. We made do with what we had and that wasn't much sometimes. But when I look back on everything, I would have to say I haven't a thing to complain about. There's not many will say that, now is there?"

Frank had to admit there were not.

After awhile Tom and Leila swam back over to where Frank sat, and old Tom left shortly after that. The three stayed on however, eating sandwiches and consuming all of the beer; Tom and Frank drank most of it, so that Leila had to drive the truck home. It was past dark, perhaps eleven o'clock, when they dropped Frank off at his home. As they drove away he listened to the steady acceleration, pause, and then smooth increase in speed once more as she expertly shifted gears in the old truck.

Frank felt flushed, invigorated with the delicious fatigue that comes from a day of real work, and a pleasant drunken numbness, and something else; an excitement he couldn't define but which came, he knew, from being around that girl. As he approached the house, which was all in darkness, he thought he saw the edge of the curtain move, but when he went inside he found Diane sleeping so soundly she didn't waken as he prepared for bed. He thought again about Leila, and how she wakened in him a hunger that was as much emotional as physical. He realized his position, she was Tom's wife and they were devoted to one another, but her interest in Frank, though purely platonic, had awaked something that had lain within him silent and suppressed, something which now began to ache.