Lucky Strike. Pat Wilson

Father Donald’s beeper began to emit the sounds I remembered from our last encounter with the fire department. “Oh shoot! What shall I do? I’m here, and the pumper is there. Oh my soul! By the time I go back and get it, it will be too late!” He rushed back and forth between the front door and the window.

      “Can’t someone else drive the fire truck?” I asked him.

      “Well, yes, of course, we have several drivers, it’s just that I’m next door, well, not today, but usually, and that’s why they leave it to me, and now, I’m here, and they’re there! Oh shoot!” Father Donald sounded close to tears with frustration.

      “Let’s go over and see what we can do,” I suggested. “We can wait for the pumper there.”

      “What a wonderful suggestion. I have a fire extinguisher in my car. We all have, well not all, but all the volunteer fire fighters have, it’s part of our kit, and perhaps we can do something. Come along, Charles. There’s no time to waste.”

      I followed him out the front door. We lost a couple of precious seconds while he fumbled in the trunk of his car before producing a large, professional-looking fire extinguisher. I stayed well back from him, not wanting to be in the vicinity of any sudden heroics by Father Donald. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the contents of the fire extinguisher were in any way dangerous to humans. I thought that it might be a good idea not to get between Father Donald and the fire.

      I stood in awe as Father Donald lumbered down the littered driveway, dodging the various impediments. With surprising efficiency, he threw his not inconsiderable weight against the front door, which fell open with a bang. It occurred to me that the caffeine and chocolate, combined with the adrenaline rush brought on by the situation, must have kicked in with a vengeance. I might have tried the door handle first, but I must admit, Father Donald’s direct approach proved more effective. He’d been trained for just such an emergency. In seconds, I heard the roar of the fire extinguisher.

      At this moment, the Four Cormorants Fire Department truck manoeuvered down the driveway, its siren wailing, followed by several pickup trucks filled with volunteer firefighters. The Jollimore collection of used vehicles, appliances and bedsprings were crushed and scattered before the onslaught. Hoses were unreeled and snaked across the unkempt lawn. Several men pulled out a ladder to place against the front of the house.

      Before they could turn the pumper on, Father Donald appeared in the open doorway, waving his fire extinguisher in triumph. “No need, fellows,” he called. “I put it out. Well, it looks out, and it was just a small fire, nothing at all really, a bunch of rags and some paint thinner that someone had left very carelessly in the front hall, spontaneous combustion, I suppose, quite surprising, although you only have to read the reports to know how often it happens, well, not that often, lightning being much more likely to strike, I believe . . .”

      In obvious disappointment, the Cormorant crew began to reel in the hoses and stow the ladder. Those who had managed to put on their safety gear started to undress. A definite air of anticlimax hung over the scene.

      Several other cars full of sightseers drove by, slowed down, looked, then drove on. I realized that a fire in Cormorant Harbour was a community event,

      The appearance of a small van in the driveway caused a minor flurry of excitement among the firefighters. “Here’s Bev,” said one. “I could use a cold drink. Hope she brought some sandwiches.”

      The men clustered around the open back doors of the van, where I could see Beverly Barkhouse handing out cans of pop.

      “Oh, good,” said Father Donald. “It’s the Auxiliary Van. They always come to every fire with refreshments. Mildred has a beeper, too, and she makes sure that someone brings us a little something to keep us going.” He grabbed two cans, offering one to me. When I declined, he slipped the second can in his pocket.

      “Nobody home,” said one fellow, who had done a quick search of the house. “Good thing, too. Those fumes can be pretty bad. Not much damage. Nothing a little redecorating won’t cure.”

      From the rags and paint thinner Father Donald had found in the hallway, I could tell they’d already started redecorating. Kevin’s carelessness did not surprise me. If it hadn’t been for the quick actions of Father Donald, he might have lost his whole house to the fire. I congratulated myself that I had resisted Kevin’s attempts to have me hire him as my handyman.

      I heard the screech of brakes. Kevin arrived in his decrepit pickup truck, which he parked off to one side of the road. He and Clarence scrambled out and ran up the driveway.

      “Hey, Kev. What’s your hurry? Where’s the fire?” yelled one of the lounging firefighters. The rest laughed at the old joke.

      “Did you bring the marshmallows?” called another.

      Kevin and Clarence stood in front of the house, a look of stunned amazement on their faces.

      “It hasn’t burned down?” Clarence stammered. “It’s still all here?”

      “Shut up!” Kevin hissed to Clarence. “What happened?” he asked a nearby fire fighter.

      “Some stuff you left in the hall caught fire. Paint rags is famous for doing that. ‘Spontaneous confusion’ they calls it. Lucky for you that Father Donald was on the spot. Called it right in and put it out afore we got here. Hardly scorched the walls. Won’t notice a thing after a lick of paint.”

      Kevin looked shaken, and the depth of his emotion surprised me considering that nothing had been lost. It struck me that he must be very attached to his little abode, despite its outward appearance. He seemed at a loss for words, an unusual state for Kevin. He didn’t even thank Father Donald for his heroic efforts.

      “Gotta go and get Arleen,” he muttered as he turned away from the house. “She’s over at her Ma’s. She’s not going to be happy about this.” He and Clarence made their way back to the truck, got in and drove away.

      Father Donald and I waited until the last firefighter had left, then we, too, made our way back to my little house, stopping while Father Donald re-stowed the empty fire extinguisher. In the living room, Father Donald picked up his briefcase.

      “Well, I must say, this has been much more exciting than I expected it would be, not that I didn’t think a visit with you, Charles, wouldn’t be exciting, well not exactly exciting, perhaps, but interesting at least, what with the news of the Bishop and all, but I never expected to be donning my firefighter’s hat in your living room, well, not in your living room, since it was on the truck, but metaphorically speaking, I guess you could say that I am always on duty, as a firefighter, as well as in my ministerial capacity. Yes, that’s me. Always on duty.” He beamed at me, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Always on duty,” he repeated.

      “Thank heavens you were on duty,” I told him. “Otherwise, the Jollimores might have lost their house.”