Spadework

Lust. Infidelity. Betrayal. Murder. On a summer evening in Stratford, Ontario, the errant thrust of a gardener's spade slices a telephone cable into instant silence. The resulting disconnection is devastating. With the failure of one call to reach the house, an ambitious young actor becomes the victim of sexual blackmail. The blocking of a second call leads tragically to murder. And when a Bell Canada repairman arrives to mend the broken line, his innocent yet irresistible male beauty has explosive consequences. In Spadework , Timothy Findley, a master storyteller and playwright, has created an electric wordplay of infidelity and morality set on the stage of Stratford, Ontario, Findley's home territory. In this fictional portrait of Canada's preeminent theater town, intrigue, passion, and ambition are always waiting in the wings. Findley peoples the town with theater folk, artists, writers, and visitors (both welcome and unwelcome), and with lives that are immediately recognizable as "Findley-esque" -- the lonely, the dispossessed, and the sexually troubled. A story that ripples with ever-widening repercussions, a sensual, witty, and completely absorbing novel, Spadework is another Timothy Findley winner.

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Chapter One

Stratford, Ontario, Thursday, June 25, 1998 Swirling people. Lights. Music. Enough to make a person dizzy. This was only the beginning. Then you had to get through the doors, hand over your tickets to someone you could barely see in the crush and, after that, find your seat.

Opening night -- and nothing in the world to equal it. The audience radiant with expectation-the actors sick with apprehension.

Everyone -- as the saying goes -- was there -- all the stars, all the rich, all the Festival Board and staff -- the artistic directorhis assistant -- the designer, the composer, the lighting and costume designers, the mass of visiting actors, writers, directors . . . And the critics, all of whom were attempting -- as always, without success -- to maintain anonymity. Who -me?

They were somewhat overshadowed by the simultaneous presence of the Governor General and the multiple rumors of visiting actors Meryl Streep, Anthony Hopkins, Vanessa Redgrave, Emma Thompson and Jude Law. (These rumors seldom proved to be correct, but on occasion, some were true.) Nonetheless, the critics meticulously found their way to their aisle seats and stood waiting one by one, still feigning absence, until the rest of their rows had filled.

As always at Stratford's Festival Theatre, the evening began with fanfares -- trumpets, applause and the raising of flags. Because of the Governor General's presence, the national anthem would be played. People would stand -- most of them would sing and there would be extensive applause, since the Governor General was an extremely popular figure.

In the midst of all this, Jane Kincaid and her seven-year-old son, Will, made their way to their privileged seats in the orchestra, five rows from the stage, two seats from the aisle. They sat down -- stood up -- sat down -- stood up and sat down again as other members of the audience filed past them, laughing, smiling, excited, lost, apologetic, clumsy, graceful and awkward by turns. Sitting on Jane's other side was the play's director, Jonathan Crawford.

They barely spoke beyond the necessary acknowledgment that they were aware of each other's presence. After the national anthem Jane could see that Jonathan, as was natural, was almost catatonic with nerves, while his masklike expression said: nothing can possibly faze me -- I've done my job -- it's over and the rest will be theatre history ...

Jane Kincaid knew better, but said nothing. She was almost in the same state. Her husband and Will's father, Griffin, would be appearing that night as Claudio in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing -- and by all accounts, he was sensational and well on his way to stardom. Jane had deliberately stayed away from the dress rehearsal and the previews-wanting to savor the moment with Will.

Like all roads leading to the limelight, Griffin's had been long and arduous. He had begun his acting career at the University of Toronto -- on a dare, playing Brick in Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. He had broken his leg in a hockey accident and was bored. Since Brick wears a cast on his leg all through the play, Griffin's girlfriend of the moment, who was playing Maggie, the "cat" of the title, had said to him: why don't you give it a whirl? After all -- a person never knows. What followed was the proverbial story of a duck taking to water. Griffin was stricken as by contagion and almost at once had given up the study of law.

He had gone on to play Brick on two other occasions -- in Vancouver and in Winnipeg, which is where he met and fell in love with Jane Terry. They married just before moving to Stratford.

Jane had come to Canada from Plantation, Louisiana, in :1987, seeking work in the theatre as an artist. To her great satisfaction, she had been engaged as a property maker and designer in various theatres and had designed the props for the production of Cat at the Manitoba Theatre Centre in Winnipeg. Less than a year later she and Griffin were married, and seven months after that, Will was born.

Now, here they sat -- mother and son, their stomachs in knots -- waiting for Griffin to make his first entrance. Luckily he was on within the first seven minutes. (Will timed it.)

Jane almost wept. Griffin was surely the best-looking man on the stage -- on any stage -- and since the play was set in the eighteenth century, his trousers clung to his legs like a second skin and his tunic like a third.

The role of Claudio is difficult, because he must be played as both a charmer and a bastard -- a daring soldier and a cowardly lover who denounces his beloved Hero on their wedding day, naively believing she has been unfaithful to him.

One minute you'll adore him, the next minute you'll bate him, Jane had warned Will. Not to worry, hon. It's only a play and Daddy's pretending to be someone else--as he always does at work.

Sometimes he even looks ugly, Will had said, remembering his father the year before as one of the murderers in Macbeth.

Yes, Jane had said with a smile, but it was awfully hard to believe it was really him.

Excerpted from Spadework by Timothy Findley. Copyright © 2002 by Timothy Findley. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.