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boyfriend. He was a broker in Vancouver and was staying in Tofino for a few days. His idea of a holiday entailed talking at top volume into his mobile, offeringunwanted financial advice and generally getting on everyone’s nerves. It hadn’t taken Stringer long to grasp that the two men wouldn’t become friends, especially after Walker had pestered Anawak for one long painful evening with questions about his roots.
    â€˜You probably won’t believe me,’ she said, ‘but that’s not all he ever talks about.’
    â€˜Seriously?’
    â€˜You only have to ask him nicely,’ she said pointedly.
    â€˜OK,’ said Anawak, ‘I’ll join you later.’
    â€˜No, you won’t. You’ve no intention of coming.’
    Anawak grinned. ‘Well, if you ask me nicely…’
    He wouldn’t go, of course. He knew that and so did Stringer, but she repeated the invitation all the same. ‘We’re meeting at eight, in case you change your mind. Think about it: maybe you should drag your mussel-covered butt down there. Tom’s sister’s coming, and she’s got a thing about you.’
    It was almost enough to persuade him. But Tom Shoemaker was the manager of Davie’s, and Anawak wasn’t keen to tie himself to a place he was trying to leave. ‘I’ll think it over.’
    Stringer laughed, and left.
    Anawak stayed to deal with the customers until Shoemaker took over. Eventually he left the office and headed on to the main road. Davie’s Whaling Station was one of the first buildings on the way into Tofino. It was a pretty place, made of timber just like everywhere else in town, with a red roof, a sheltered terrace and a front lawn on which its trademark totem towered into the air - a seven-metre-high whale fluke made of cedar. It was set on the edge of a thick forest of pines. The area was exactly how most Europeans imagined Canada, and the locals did their best to reinforce this impression: sitting by the light of their lanterns, they would tell stories about meeting bears in their front gardens or riding on a whale’s back. And most of it was true. The gently sloping beaches, rugged scenery, marshes, rivers and deserted coves, with the ancient pines and cedars that lined the west coast from Tofino to Port Renfrew, drew in hordes of tourists every year. On a good day you could look out to sea and spot a grey whale or watch the otters and sea-lions sunning themselves. And even when rain lashed the island, many people still thought it was heaven on earth.
    That wasn’t how Anawak saw it.
    He walked a little way into town, then turned off towards one of the wharfs. A dilapidated twelve-metre-long sailing-boat was anchored there. Davie owned it, but he had been reluctant to pay for it to be repaired, so Anawak lived there for a peppercorn rent. His real home was a tiny apartment in Vancouver city but he only used it if he had business in town.
    He went below deck, picked up a bundle of papers and walked back to the station. In Vancouver he owned a rusty old Ford, but on the island he made do with Shoemaker’s ancient Land Cruiser. He got in, started the engine and drove to the Wickaninnish Inn, a top-class hotel a few kilometres out of town on a rocky promontory with breathtaking views of the ocean. The cloud was breaking up, revealing patches of blue. A well-maintained road led through the dense forest and he drove for ten minutes. When he came to a little car park he left his vehicle and continued on foot, past enormous dead tree-trunks that lay rotting on the ground. The path climbed upwards through trees that glowed green in the evening sunshine. He could smell damp soil and hear water dripping. The pine branches were covered with ferns and moss. Everything seemed vibrantly alive.
    By the time he reached the Wick he was feeling better for his walk. Now that the sky was clearing he could sit on the beach and work in peace. It