The Playing Fields

Chapter 32

The hot, humid weather of July continued right into the middle of Ashton Hill's bustling tourist season. A number of older homes that struggled economically through the harsh winter months, were born again as bed and breakfast establishments, filling their rooms as quickly as each new SUV barreled into town. Almost instantly, no vacancy signs were hammered into the front lawns, sending carloads of dejected latecomers scrambling for their maps to locate the next closest community. The Paisley Arms, Ashton Hill's oldest, and only, hotel, juggled reservations with the skill of a professional prestidigitator, eking the most from the space in its twenty-four rooms. A portion of Paisley Taft Park was set aside for campgrounds, monitored scrutinously by the local police for violators of the park's stringent codes, one of which was that Arthur Paisley's view of the pond remain unobstructed. Main Street was awash in colourful posters and advertisements for the various businesses and activities, and the shop windows displayed the very best of their wares with tourist prices to match.

Daryl stood proudly on the sidewalk gazing up at the floral extravaganza of climbing geraniums in hanging pots that festooned the front of his store. Across the street, in his upstairs office window, Jeffrey glared with distaste at the gaudy display, paid for out of the council budget. At Hardware Heaven, Ross was perched precariously on a ladder, stringing coloured lights around the huge sign, and a few doors down, Victor Wang was directing the placement of a pagoda shaped sandwich board, announcing the Forbidden City's specials. Throngs of shorts clad, sandal-footed families shuffled along the crowded sidewalks, oohing and aaahing at the windows of the various shops, reining in rambunctious children and unwinding family dogs from the sidewalk displays.

Happy holiday chatter emanated from the rapidly filling tables that fronted nearly every restaurant, tea shop and bakery, patrons thankful for the awnings and various umbrellas for shade, but eager to stay in touch with the fresh air and sunshine. Those unlucky enough, or through choice, to find an outdoor table, selected relish and mustard slathered hotdogs from the street vendors and found their way down into the green grass of Paisley Taft Park. Squares of blankets lay scattered among the trees, couples and families relaxing with their purchased meals and enjoying the amusing pastime of people watching. Veterans of the Ashton Hills summer getaway chuckled and winked at one another knowingly as the first timers flocked to take a ride on the Woogen tour boat, an oft painted, creaking relic that chugged around the pond under the captaincy of her Swedish master, Thor Rajflsak. For three dollars a head, half price for children, Captain Rajflsak provided an agonizingly slow, twenty-minute circuit of Paisley Pond, allowing for meager glimpses of the local landmarks; the tip of the steeple on the Methodist church, the twenty-five foot span of Ashton Hill's oldest bridge, and high above in the trees, Arthur Paisley's estate.

From the second floor window of his office, Milo stared unhappily at the giant, four colour poster advertising the summer theatre's offering. Despite heated debates at council, and later with Nigel and the full cast, he had failed to gain a prominent billing, relegated instead, to an alphabetically arranged list of players, well below the title.

"I don't know why you're so concerned about that sign," Amanda sounded bored as she sat at her desk, buffing her nails.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Milo, this isn't Hollywood, for Heaven's sake." She dropped her emery board into the desk drawer and walked over to stand behind him. "It's not like you're being paid by the size of type your name appears in, it's a joint, volunteer effort by everyone."

He turned and gave her a scalding look. "Yes, and I notice how eager you've been to volunteer your efforts, Amanda."

"Whoa, wait just a minute. Our little fun and games don't give you any license over my social life, Milo." She turned and strode to her desk, picking up her purse and slinging the strap over her shoulder.