WITHOUT (MUCH) FURTHER ADO …
An Excerpt From Bill Richardson’s New Book

We could probably get away with just saying that Bill Richardson needs no introduction, but for newcomers we should recap that Bill, a West End resident when he’s in town, is best known for his years on CBC Radio with such programs as As You Like It, Richardson’s Roundup, and Bunny Watson. In 1994 his whimsical wisdom in his book Bachelor Brothers’ Bed and Breakfast earned him the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour. For many years he was everyone’s go-to-guy for emceeing numerous Vancouver charitable and cultural events. Bill is currently the Writer In Residence at The Centre for Creative Writing and Oral Culture at the University of Manitoba.

Bill’s latest work, I Saw Three Ships (Talon Books / 2019) - excerpted below - is a collection of seven interlinked stories, mostly set around the Christmas season, and mostly in and around our West End. The book was launched this fall at a standing-room-only reading in the West End Community Centre’s auditorium.

You can find I Saw Three Ships, obviously a great holiday gift-giving idea, at Indigo Books on Robson, Little Sisters on Davie, The Paper Hound Bookshop on West Pender, through the publisher, and of course via Mr. Bezo’s little company.

Herewith, The West End Journal’s exclusive excerpt I Saw Three Ships.

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Bill Richardson, defying authority as usual. (Bill Pechet Photo)

I SAW THREE SHIPS: WEST END STORIES
By Bill Richardson

(Excerpt from “Since We Have No Place To Go”

Brigitte, the Santa Maria’s living memory and conscience, was anxious to impress upon Rosellen that she, the new janitor – Rosellen, a certified property manager, bristled silently – cleave to the high bar established by her predecessors in the custodial arts, of whom there had been but two, both men. At stake was the honour of not just the building but also her sex. Brigitte made it known, with force, that the Nina, and the Pinta, and the Santa Maria were famous in the neighbourhood for the quality and quantity of their seasonal decorations. The Nina laid claim to Halloween, the Pinta to Valentine’s Day. It fell to the Santa Maria to go all out at Christmas. There had never been a time when this order of high holy day precedence was not observed. Never. For a few years, a fellow named O’Rourke had tried, for obvious reasons, to whip up some froth around St. Patrick’s Day, but it never took. He grew bitter. He moved. Good riddance.

There was one storage unit, Brigitte explained, the largest of them, in which building supplies were located: cleaning equipment, fire-exit replacement bulbs, the Suite for Rent sign, etc. Also, there were several packing crates containing everything ornamental required to make the season bright. Rosellen would find grade-A plastic greenery, holly and cedar boughs and frosted pine cones, also foil garlands that blared out festive wishes: “GOOD WILL TO MEN!” “PEACE ON EARTH!” There was an inflatable St. Nicholas that glowed with an inner light. There was a darling crèche cobbled together entirely out of sponges and pipe cleaners, handcrafted by Mr. Parker, who had lived in 301, who perished from snake bite while visiting the Grand Canyon. Travel was fraught; Brigitte herself preferred to be at home. There were elves with a workbench. There were reindeer made of woven branches and nutcracker dolls and felt stockings, appropriately appliquéd, to hang from the wrought-iron stair railings, twenty-nine of them, one for every suite in the Santa Maria. There were strings and strings of lights which, annoyingly, irrationally, wouldn’t work at all if one bulb was deficient, it was as if they belonged to a union. There was a piece of colourful gift wrap that had been cut to fit the door in such a way that the painted sign “Santa Maria” became “Santa” for the length of the season. That same pattern of wrap – a Boxing Day bulk buy from London Drugs – was applied to empty boxes of varying dimensions, all done up with paper and ribbon, props for placement under the Christmas tree, which was nice, very nice, even though artificial. Plus there were eight boxes of decorations to hang upon it: frosted balls, tear drops, snowmen, the Magi, elves, candy canes, tinsel. There were any number of Santas, a multitude of reindeer, but there was only one angel, the angel intended to perch atop the tree, from which vantage she surveyed the lobby through which there was very little room to pass by the time everything was in place. Brigitte had much to say about the angel, her harp, her halo, her wings made of real feathers, she wasn’t sure from what bird. She’d been purchased years ago by Brigitte’s late sister in Victoria, bought from a sweet little store that long ago went out of business. The angel was irreplaceable. The angel must be treated with care. It was only when she saw the angel that Brigitte felt all the weight, the warmth of Christmas settle upon her. Jean-Christophe, Brigitte stressed, underscoring the point with many jabs of rheumatic fingers, had been a genius, no, really, she meant it, a genius, at arranging all the festive miscellany into a more-than-palatable whole; of course, he’d been a window dresser back in Montréal, employed by some big fancy store, so he was at an advantage. Even so, Brigitte knew she spoke for the whole building in saying she hoped Rosellen would make an effort, would do her level best to match his exquisite hall-decking.

“The second Sunday in December. That’s when they go up.”

“That’s soon.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s a week away.”

“That’s correct.”

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Left wanting more? You know what to do!