Читать книгу Your Time, My Time - Ann Walsh - Страница 5

Margaret Elizabeth Connell, fifteen years old and sweaty, pushed her hair behind her ears and thought wistfully of air conditioning. The small trailer that she and her mother now called home seemed to absorb the August heat and intensify it until the air felt too hot to breathe.

Elizabeth sighed and looked down at the letter she was writing. Spread out on the arborite top of the kitchen table, the sheet of paper seemed wilted and damp. Her perspiring hands had left dark smudges across the page and it looked as untidy as she felt. She read over what she had just written:

Dear Dad,

You told me that Wells, British Columbia, population 500 and very historical, would be an interesting place to live for a year. It had a lake nearby to swim in, famous Barkerville just up the road, and all the stores and things that Mom and I would need to keep us busy and happy.

Dear Dad. You were so wrong! This place is the absolute end of the world! It is hot and dusty, (so dusty that they water down the roads every morning) and dull! There is only one general store and a bunch of tourist places across the highway, and the movie theatre, the Sunset, is only open once in a while. No drugstore. No supermarket. No record store. The Jack of Clubs Lake is close but it’s cold (even in this heat!) and has a soggy, muddy bottom. I haven’t met anyone my own age yet and I haven’t even seen Barkerville in the two weeks we’ve been here.

Our trailer is small, but it will do for the two of us. It gets awfully hot, though. Also, because it’s right behind the hotel, it’s really noisy on Friday and Saturday nights when the pub is full. (Should I even bother to tell you that there is only one pub in Wells and the Jack O’ Clubs is it?) Late last Friday night someone came staggering around here, looking for his car or something, and threw up right outside the front door. Gross!

Mom is finding that being the cook for the restaurant in the Jack O’ Clubs isn’t quite the exciting job she thought it would be. She goes to work at noon and is tired and irritable when she gets home at nine.

Oh, Dad, please can I come back to Vancouver and live with you and Brian? I hate it in Wells!

Elizabeth shook her head and slowly began erasing the last paragraph. It wouldn’t help her father to know how miserable she was or how unhappy her mother was. Joan Connell had signed a contract to work for a year, and Elizabeth had to stay with her mother in dusty, hot, boring Wells.

She finished erasing and stood up. As she opened the fridge door, reaching for the last can of Coke, her hair swung out against her cheek and stuck to her damp skin. Angrily, she pushed it back behind her ears. Her hair, always straight, seemed more limp than ever in this heat. Her mother and brother, Brian, both had dark black hair that curled slightly, making it easy to handle. Why did she have to get the mousy-red, perfectly straight and often greasy hair that came from her father’s side of the family?

To make matters worse, she’d left Vancouver needing a haircut and found, to her dismay, that Wells didn’t even have a barber shop, much less a beauty salon. Perhaps her mother would take her into Quesnel on her next day off. Quesnel was about an hour’s drive down the highway. It was much larger than Wells and had some decent stores — and beauty salons! Well, if worst came to worst and she couldn’t stand it any longer, she’d cut her hair herself!

Back at the table she shoved the letter aside. She’d finish writing to her father this evening when it cooled down a bit. Right now she’d sit and enjoy the cold Coke and try not to think of anything. If she went on with the letter, she knew she’d end up crying, which wouldn’t help at all.

A whole year in Wells! And it was all her mother’s fault. Her mother, at the age of thirty-six, had decided that she wasn’t happy, wasn’t being ‘fulfilled’ by her life in Vancouver. The past year had been miserable. Her parents had fought continually, her mother had cried a great deal, and one week-end her father hadn’t come home at all. Then, a month ago, Joan Connell announced that she was moving out for a year, a trial separation before they went ahead with a divorce. She had found the job in the Jack O’ Clubs — and she was taking Elizabeth with her.

Elizabeth slammed the empty Coke can down on the table. Her parents had discussed the move and had decided that Elizabeth should go with her mother, like it or not. Elizabeth spent a week trying to change their minds, but they remained firm. “Teen-aged girls need their mothers, especially because fifteen is such a difficult stage.” The decision was final.

Great, Elizabeth had thought at the time. That means there will be two of us going through a difficult time together. Just what we both need!

She was even more upset when she realized that there was no question of Brian, her twelve year-old brother, going with them. “He can’t lose a whole year of hockey,” her mother had said. “And you know how badly he gets bronchitis, even in Vancouver’s mild winters. He couldn’t possibly move to such a cold climate. There isn’t even a doctor in Wells!”

There wasn’t a doctor in Wells — and not much else, either. After only two weeks in the town, Elizabeth began to realize how difficult the year would be. Her mother was busy, working late hours, and she was tired and irritable when she came home. The small trailer was furnished with cheap chrome and plastic furniture; their mattresses were lumpy and stained. Elizabeth missed the big, gracious home in Vancouver, only minutes away from stores, a swimming pool, and movie theatres. She missed her friends, her television programmes (Wells had only one channel), and even her brother, Brian. And she desperately missed her father. More than she had imagined.

Tears began to sting her eyes. Enough of this, Margaret Elizabeth, she told herself firmly. Stop thinking about home. This dumb trailer in this stupid town is your home, at least for a while. There’s nothing you can do about it but stick it out and hope that Mom moves back to Vancouver when the year is over. Smarten up, stop worrying, and do something to take your mind off your problems.

Fine. She would do something. Great idea. But what could she do? She carefully listed her options. Go to the hotel and hang around the kitchen, and maybe peel potatoes for dinner? No. Her mother didn’t really want her in the kitchen, at least not until she had herself more organized at the new job. Besides, thinking about living in Wells for a year had made her angry at her mother, and her resentment would show. It would be better to stay out of her way.

Perhaps Meg MacDonald could use her to babysit little Fay? (The MacDonalds owned the Jack O’ Clubs and Meg worked as assistant manager and bookkeeper.) No. Little Fay was only a year old and would be having her afternoon nap right now.

Well, why not spend some time in the Jack O’ Clubs Hotel, exploring and wandering around? The hotel boasted a large lobby with a big fireplace and comfortable old chairs. A steep staircase led out of the lobby to a warren of narrow corridors with surprising twists and turns. There was one place upstairs, a small bay window, that overlooked the flat, marshy grounds behind the hotel. She particularly liked that spot, and would sometimes take a book there and curl up in one of the old leather chairs. It might be cooler than the trailer. Anywhere would be cooler than the trailer!

No. That idea didn’t appeal to her today. She didn’t really feel like reading.

Okay, then, what about a walk down the street to the Pacific 66? It was an old gas station that sold some gas and oil, but also had the most incredible selection of secondhand ‘junk’ in Wells. There were old books, shelves of them, and only yesterday she had found a first edition of Ray Bradbury’s Golden Apples of the Sun. She had been reading nothing but science fiction for a year now, much to her mother’s disgust, and the Pacific 66 had a good selection of some of her favourite authors.

Or she could just browse through boxes of kitchen utensils, faded make-up, perfumed soap, candles, souvenirs and gum boots. Perhaps she could find another treasure like the large purple glass ball, an old Japanese fishing float, that she had come across earlier this week. Yes, the Pacific 66 sounded like a good idea — except she didn’t have a cent to her name! Until she did some more babysitting for the MacDonalds or collected this week’s allowance she had better stay away from temptation.

What else was there to do on a hot August afternoon in Wells? She could check out the tiny museum again, spend a few hours among the displays of items saved from the gold-rush days. No, she couldn’t do that, either. The museum was closed this afternoon.

Come on, she told herself. Use the imagination every one says you have! Surely you can think of something better to do than sit around a small, hot trailer. How about a swimt

The thought of the long, hot walk back home took all the pleasure out of that idea.

She looked at her watch. Half-past two. She wouldn’t get dinner until seven when the rush was over and all the paying customers in the restaurant had been fed. There were more than four hours to fill in.

Suddenly, she stood up. “Okay,” she said aloud. “Hot or not, there is only one thing for you to do this afternoon. Get on your bike, Margaret Elizabeth, and go and discover Barkerville.”

Grabbing her baseball cap, the blue one that her father had given her because he said the colour matched her eyes exactly, she stepped out of the trailer and into the hot August sun. Her ten-speed was chained to the back of the trailer. She undid the lock, checked the tires, and swung herself up onto the seat.

She coasted down the hill in front of the hotel, turning left onto the highway. Barkerville was supposed to be about eight kilometers from Wells and, as she looked at the highway unwinding in front of her, the air above it heavy with heat haze, she hoped it wasn’t any farther.

Well, Barkerville, she thought as she changed gears and settled down for the long ride, you better be worth the tríp!