Читать книгу Your Time, My Time - Ann Walsh - Страница 6

The trip to Barkerville, although longer than Elizabeth had thought it would be, was enjoyable. The air seemed to get cooler as she rode, and more trees lined the sides of the highway. The marsh, with its winding stream, stretched along beside the road for a long way past Wells, and the hills spread out slowly around her as she cycled.

As she rode into the main parking lot in Barkerville, she noticed that the air was much cooler than in Wells. She must have been climbing more than she had thought. She found a bike stand and chained her bike to it. Then she left the parking lot and headed up the main road towards the historic town.

There was no need to hurry, so she walked slowly, letting the tourists scurry around her clicking their cameras. A sign pointed towards the graveyard; she would check that out on her way back.

Elizabeth was curious about Barkerville. She had heard a great deal about the ghost town that had been restored to look as it had in the days of British Columbia’s gold rush. She walked past the museum, and past a large statue of a miner, perhaps Billy Barker himself, panning for gold. Then she was through the gates and looking down the main street of the town.

Even at first glance, Elizabeth was very impressed with Barkerville: the old wooden buildings with their false fronts weathered to a silvery grey and the long boardwalks above the level of the dirt street. As she stood for a moment and looked down the main street, Elizabeth found herself thinking of western movies. A gun-slinger should come bursting out of one of the buildings, she thought. Then the tourists would huddle to one side and the sheriff would come slowly down the street and a real western gun-fight would take place.

The hot day had dried out the street and clouds of dust puffed under people’s feet, giving the town even more the look of a western movie set.

An old church, tall and weathered, dominated the lower end of the town, its steeple towering well above the rest of the buildings. A sign in front said, Saint Saviour’s. Curious, she stepped inside.

The church was empty of tourists for the moment, and the old wooden pews seemed to be silently waiting for a congregation. Elizabeth shivered slightly and hurried outside. The emptiness of the church and the faint smell of dust and mildew had left her with a strange sensation, almost as if she had stepped back in time. It was as if the ghosts of women in bonnets and long skirts, and men in boots and top hats were gathered in the shadows, waiting for her to leave so they could continue their church service.

She shook her head to get rid of the eerie feeling, and, with a shrug, turned her back on the church and started up the main street of Barkerville.

In the next hour Elizabeth discovered Barkerville. She learned a lot about what the town looked like in the old days, and how people lived when it was a booming gold-rush town, but she also learned that there was too much to see, too much to absorb, in one visit.

The houses, furnished and set up as if the occupants were to return any minute, the miners’ cabins, the assay office, the drug store, the general store, the hotels and the small Chinatown — too many impressions hit her all at once. After a while she found that she was skipping places. I’ll take a better look next time, she promised herself. I’ll be back again. Some things will just have to wait until my next visit.

She stood longest before displays that did not boast a plaster mannequin. The tired looking and somewhat tatty models that stood in many exhibits disturbed the atmosphere that Barkerville itself created. An empty living room with needlepoint lying beside a rocking chair; a kitchen looking as if the cook had just stepped out of the room; a schoolroom with books lying open on old wooden desks — these were the displays that sent peculiar shivers up and down her spine. She felt that if she blinked her eyes, the door would open and the long-dead occupants would come back into the rooms and pick up their needlepoint or school books. It was almost as if she were the ghost, standing silently in the doorways and waiting for the people of old Barkerville to go on with their lives.

The crowds of tourists had thinned out now. Elizabeth looked at her watch. It was nearly four. Although she had only spent an hour wandering the main street and hadn’t even begun to explore the museum or the mining displays, she felt that she had seen enough for one day. Something was troubling her; a sense of almost losing touch with the real world of 1980.

Perhaps this happens to everyone when they first see Barkerville, she thought. I’ll head home and come back tomorrow. Maybe by then I’ll be more prepared for this sense of the past and won’t have this funny feeling.

She decided not to follow the sign that said, To Richfield; it promised a long uphill walk to the old courthouse. Instead, she turned around and started back the way she had come. The Barnard Express wagon, drawn by four sturdy horses, was loading up with a group of tourists. She reminded herself to bring money next time so that she could take the ride. She paused to watch a group of giggling children settle themselves in the carriage and two nervous women perch cautiously on the open benches on top.

A smell of freshly baked bread drifted out from the bakery near the Express Office, and a sign in the window proclaimed, Sourdough Bread, Fresh Daily. Once again regretting her penniless state, she walked past the bakery and headed for the main gate.

Just inside the gate there was a sign announcing that Judge Begbie would be holding court in the Methodist Church at two, three and four o’clock. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after four. I wonder if the Judge would mind if I’m a bit latel she thought. I’d like to see his performance and it’s free! I can sneak in quietly, sit in the back, and no one will notice.

She hurried to the small church which sat in the shadow of the much larger Saint Saviour’s and quietly climbed the wooden stairs. Through a window she caught a glimpse of a black-robed figure towering over the heads of the tourists seated in the pews. She could faintly hear a deep voice, muffled but still loud.

Cautiously she opened the door, eased herself inside and gently shut the door behind her. There was an empty aisle seat two rows in front of her. She was carefully making her way towards it when the actor playing Judge Begbie abruptly stopped speaking and pointed directly at her.

“Young lady,” he boomed, “this court has been in session for ten minutes! What is your excuse for interrupting the sworn duties of the Court of Her Majesty the Queen by this unseemly late arrival?”

Everyone in the church turned to stare at her, waiting to see what she would do. Someone giggled.

Elizabeth was suddenly angry. Sure, she was a bit late, but this was just an actor playing a part, not a real judge. He might be wearing a judge’s black robes and long horsehair wig, but he was just an ordinary person and had no right to embarrass her in front of all these people. Her first impulse was to turn around and walk out, but that would be more embarrassing than staying.

No! She gathered her courage, looked the judge straight in the eye and replied, “I’m sorry, Your Honour. The stage from Richfield was unavoidably delayed. I assure you it will not happen again.”

The Judge lowered his hand. “Very well, then. I accept your apology. You may take a seat. This court will now resume.”

Elizabeth slid into the empty seat and pushed her hair behind her ears. She felt flushed and hot, and the palms of her hands were sweating. She knew she was blushing.

A woman seated beside her smiled appreciatively. “That was good,” she whispered. “Are you part of the act?” Elizabeth smiled back and suddenly she didn’t feel angry anymore. She had handled herself well, and there was no need to be embarrassed or upset. She gave her attention to the performance, and sat enthralled as The Hanging Judge of the Cariboo told of his life, his reputation and the men he’d helped or hanged over a century ago.

She knew a little bit about the real Judge Begbie. He had been a big man, over six feet five inches tall, with an upswept moustache and a full black beard laced with grey. He had been a stern man, too, with strong opinions and a forceful manner of speaking that would send fear into the hearts of lawbreakers and juries alike. Judge Begbie had almost single-handedly brought law and order to British Columbia.

The actor portraying the Judge resembled him in appearance, even to the dark streak in the centre of his beard. He too was tall; a thin-faced man about fifty years old. He wore no make-up, relying instead on his thick, greying hair and beard, and his neatly trimmed and waxed moustache to help him look the part.

For twenty minutes Elizabeth sat and listened, com pletely caught up in stories of the life and times of the Judge. The tourists laughed discreetly (this was supposed to be a courtroom after all!) and followed intently as the actor went through his monologue. By the time he finished and was answering questions from the audience, Elizabeth had the feeling that this was Judge Begbie, not just some actor playing a part. He had captured the audience, kept them interested and involved in his story, and even in the question period never once lapsed out of the forbidding personality that had been the real Begbie’s.

Questions over, the Judge dismissed the court. Applause filled the small church. The Judge allowed it to die down, then leaned across his podium and, pointing a long, slender finger at the audience, announced in a threatening voice, “On this occasion only will we permit that outrageous outburst, that applause, in our courtroom. Court dismissed!”

Elizabeth remained seated as the tourists filed past her. Some of them went up to the podium to shake the Judge’s hand and offer congratulations.

That was really something! Elizabeth thought. Why can’t all history be that exciting and interesting?

Then she realized that she and the Judge were alone in the tiny church. He gathered up his law books and started down the aisle towards her. Elizabeth stood, hoping to get out the door before he recognized her as the one who had been so late. But she wasn’t fast enough. The Judge stood in the aisle beside her and smiled.

“Hello. You certainly gave me a run for my money when I accused you of being late.”

“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth felt her face reddening. “I knew I was late, but I did want to see the performance and —”

“Oh, no! Someone is always late.” The Judge laughed. “I just wish that everyone would answer me as you did, as if I really were Judge Begbie. It helps me to stay in character when the audience co-operates. Thank you.”

Somewhat taken aback, Elizabeth smiled shyly. “You’re welcome. But I’m still sorry I was late.”

“That’s okay.” The Judge took off his wig and ran his hands through his hair. “This horsehair is unbearably hot in this weather — not to mention these heavy black robes.” He smiled at her. “Hey! Haven’t I seen you around the Jack O’ Clubs Hotel? I had dinner there last week and it seems to me that I saw you.”

“Yes. My mother is the new cook.”

“Well, you can tell her from me that she certainly is an improvement on the old one. I really enjoyed my meal — which wasn’t always the case when you ate at the Jack.”

“Thanks,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll tell her. She’s new at cooking, at cooking in a restaurant I mean. She’ll be glad to hear the compliment.”

The Judge held out his hand. “I’m Evan Ryerson, but most of my friends call me Judge. I guess after five years of doing this part I’ve begun to think of myself as the Judge as well.”

“I’m Elizabeth Connell.” She shook hands nervously. Hand shaking was something she didn’t do too much of, and she was never sure if you were supposed to give a good hard squeeze or just let your hand sit there.

“Elizabeth?” The Judge looked at her curiously. “Not Liz or Libby or Lizzy or something shorter?”

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ve never had a nickname. I’ve never liked them much. I’ve always been just Elizabeth or Margaret Elizabeth when someone is mad at me.”

“You are like an Elizabeth, you know; With that reddish hair and that strong chin you remind me of pictures of a very determined Elizabeth — Elizabeth the First, Queen of England.”

Elizabeth blushed again. She seemed to blush at everything these days, and the feeling of her face growing warm added even more to her embarrassment.

“Elizabeth the First was known as Bess when she was younger,” the Judge continued. “That’s what you look like to me — Bess. You don’t mind if I call you Bess, do you? You probably will be an Elizabeth in a few years, but right now you look like a Bess to me.”

Elizabeth found that she was strangely flattered by the Judge’s nickname for her. “No. I don’t mind,” she said.

“Well, if you’re going to be around here for a while we’ll probably be seeing a fair amount of each other. Bess is easier to say than Elizabeth.”

“I don’t mind,” Elizabeth repeated. She thought for a moment. “Bess seems sort of old fashioned, as if it goes with Barkerville and Wells and all the history that’s a part of this place. No. I don’t mind being called Bess.”

“Well then, Bess, you call me Judge if you like. And since we are going to be neighbours (I live in Wells too, you know), then let’s be friends.”

“All right, Judge.” Elizabeth smiled. “By the way, I enjoyed your performance.”

“Thanks,” the Judge replied. “I enjoy doing it. Judge Begbie was so much a part of the history of the gold rush that I feel honoured to portray him.”

They began walking towards the church door. “It made me feel a bit funny,” said Elizabeth. “Almost as if you were the real Judge Begbie and this really were Barkerville a century ago.”

The Judge opened the door for her. “A lot of people react that way, Bess. What do you think of Barkerville?”

“This was my first trip,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not really sure. There is too much to take in at once, and some of the exhibits — well, they almost seemed too real. I felt as if I were a ghost, snooping around people’s houses, and that the people themselves might come back at any minute and find me there. I halfway expected to see gunslingers in the main street when I first came through the gate.”

“Oh, no!” said the Judge, seriously. “Judge Begbie didn’t allow any gun-fighting in Barkerville. It may look like a western town in America, but it was very Canadian, even then. Absolutely no gun-slingers were permitted!”

He looked very stern, almost as if he had been personally responsible for establishing law and order in Barkerville. Then he relaxed. “But I do know what you mean. This town affects me the same way. You know, sometimes I get so involved with Judge Begbie — thinking about him, reading about him, researching stories to use in my monologue — that I feel almost as if I am the Judge and that Evan Ryerson is one of those ghosts you talk about. I feel as if I’m just hanging about and peeking in at the Judge’s life but that he is the real person, not me.”

He shook his head. “Fanciful thoughts, aren’t they? Listen, let me get rid of this costume and then I’ll buy you a Coke at the Wake-Up Jake Café. I could do with something cold to drink. Then we can sit and swap impressions of Barkerville in comfort.”