Читать книгу The Barkerville Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Ann Walsh - Страница 9

Peter learned more, much more. He was a quick study, and it seemed as if every day he came to work with a new word to try out on us, a question about English grammar, or something he didn’t understand.

“Why do people say skin of teeth?” he asked one day. “Teeth do not have skin. Should they not say skin of gums?.”

“Where did you hear that saying?” I asked.

“From lady who say how she slipped on the stairs from the boardwalk and nearly slid under the wheels of the stagecoach coming down the road. ‘I escaped being crushed by the skin of my teeth,’ she said.”

“It means a narrow escape,” I told him. “Something that nearly happened.”

“So, because there is no skin on teeth, it means there is nothing—only luck—to stop the accident. I see. I think I see.”

In spite of my misgivings Peter didn’t seem to be acquiring my father’s accent. Even though Pa had the same Scottish burr to his words as Jenny did, I found Pa’s accent harsh. But when Jenny spoke you could almost hear a gentle breeze sweeping across the heather of the Scottish Highlands.

With Peter’s help Pa and I finished all our commissioned jobs well before Christmas, and I found time to attend Mrs. Fraser’s evening of song and poetry. Jenny had managed to put the twins to bed early that night, so she sat with me while we listened. The next week the Cariboo Glee Club, of which I was a member when I could find the time to practise, piled onto two sleighs and spent an evening travelling the Cariboo Road from Richfield to Marysville, sharing carols with everyone.

Jenny was released from her duties that evening, and she accompanied me. She wore a blue wool hood lined with silk and carried a matching muff to keep her hands warm. But as we weary carollers returned to Barkerville, she complained that her hands were dreadfully cold. She offered them to me so I could feel how icy they were, and I took them in my own. Suddenly the stars seemed brighter and the cold wind vanished. I felt warm all over, and though I knew I was blushing, it was dark so I didn’t think anyone noticed.

After Christmas, winter gripped us harder. The temperature dropped to well below zero, the wind howled, and it seemed that every day brought another foot of snow. Business in the carpentry shop was slow, and near the end of January my father decided to take some time off. “With you and Peter to handle things, I think I can take a wee rest,” he said. “The long walk to the carpentry shop each day has become difficult for me. My bones ache, as if the wind cuts right through me.”

So I made the trip down the hill alone each morning, my scarf pulled tightly against my throat, my hands deep in my pockets, my nose reddening and dripping as winter slapped me in the face.

I didn’t see much of Jenny after Christmas. She and the twins were confined to the shelter of the house during this bitter cold. In truth, not many people ventured out on the streets. And if they did, they hurried to finish their errands so they could return to the warmth of their own fires.

But no matter when I arrived at the shop Peter was there before me. There was always a fire lit and a kettle hot, and he made me a cup of tea the moment I came in the door. Peter kept the shop immaculate, the floor clean, the piles of lumber neatly stacked, the cans of paints and varnishes organized, the glue pot full. I also found that I was enjoying his company, especially since I had so little work to do.

“So,” he asked me one day, “you think my English is sufficient, sir?”

“Peter, I’ve asked you over and over again to call me Ted, not sir. Try to do so.”

He grinned. “So, Ted, how is my English coming?”

“It’s excellent. I seldom hear you mispronounce a word or use faulty grammar. You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

He looked unhappy. “Oh, I am sorry you think so.”

“Why are you sorry you speak good English?”

“Because my father thinks it is now time for me to go to work for him. He says I speak English so well that no Chinese person can understand me anymore, and that if I learn more long words, no English-speaking person will understand me, either. Only yesterday he reminds me of old Chinese saying— A wise man is modest in his speech.’ I think my father believe I am no longer very modest.”

“I’ll miss you, Peter. I wish you didn’t have to leave.” I would also miss coming to work to find a warm fire and a clean shop. Many of the chores Peter now did would once again be mine when he left. I had never been fond of sweeping floors.

“I do not wish to leave here, sir...I mean, Ted. I want to stay. I will, someday, be honoured to work for my father, but...”

I had a sudden inspiration. “Can you read English, Peter?”

“Only a little. I learn some with Mr. Moses, but mostly I do arithmetic. I can add longs sums in my head.”

“Perhaps,” I said, thinking out loud, “you should learn to read and write English, as well. When you work in your father’s store, you’ll need to understand invoices, write out bills, and read advertisements of new merchandise so you’ll know what to order. I think you should learn to read.”

Peter’s face lit up. “There is another old Chinese saying— ‘Without knowing the weight of words, it is impossible to know the intentions of men.’ I think that is how it would be said in English. It means that words are important. I shall remind my father of that saying and also tell him that words that are written are important to learn, same as words that are spoken. You are a wise man, sir...Ted.”

I bowed my head and tried to look wise. “Thank you.”

Peter took my coat and scarf from the hook on the wall and handed them to me. Then he pulled on his own jacket.

“Where are you—we—going?” I asked, startled.

“To ask my father’s permission to stay with you longer so you can teach me.”

“Me teach you?” I hadn’t really thought about who would teach Peter. I had assumed Moses or Pa would be Peter’s instructor. But Moses had closed his shop and left the Cariboo, as he always did when the weather became harsher, going to Victoria where the winter was milder. Pa seemed to be enjoying his holiday and showed no signs of coming back to work anytime soon. There was also no school in the gold fields. So who else could be Peter’s teacher?

My mother had taught me to read. We still had the books she used. I could do it. I would do it.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be your instructor, though I’m not a trained teacher.”

“I am not a trained student,” he replied. “We shall learn new skills together, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “At any rate, we’ll both try.”

I locked the shop door and put a sign on it that said WE WILL RETURN SOON, then Peter and I headed up the street toward Chinatown.

Before we reached Peter’s father’s store, however, I heard my name called. “Master Ted, please come visit for a moment with me. You, too, Nephew. It has been so long since I have seen either of you.” Sing Kee stood in the doorway to his shop. He bowed. “Come in, come in, please. I shall make you tea.”

I couldn’t help shuddering. “I’ll be glad to visit with you, Sing Kee, but you know I will never again taste Chinese tea.”

“Of course, how could I forget? You had an unfortunate experience with that drink once. But I have hot soup on the stove. That will warm you on this cold day.”

Sing Kee’s shop was dark, the air filled with the smells of herbs, some in open barrels on the floor, some in wooden boxes on the counters, some hanging in bunches from the rafters. He led us past bins packed with shrivelled mushrooms, dried sea horses, and turtle shells of all sizes. There were many other things I couldn’t identify, all of them ingredients for his herbal medicines. Next to a wall of shelves holding glass and pottery jars and bottles, there was a small doorway covered with a curtain. Peter and I had to duck as we were ushered into a room at the back of the store.

Sing Kee laughed. “You have both grown so tall. I remember when you were as young as my nephew, Ted. You were much shorter than he is, I believe.”

“I am very tall for my age, Uncle,” Peter said. “Very strong worker, too.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “Peter’s been a great help in the shop, Sing Kee. I enjoy his company.”

“That does not surprise me,” the herbalist answered. He ladled fragrant soup into small blue-and-white bowls, giving one to each of us. I held the bowl in my hands, welcoming its warmth.

“Sit,” Sing Kee said, motioning to two low stools beside the stove. “Sit and tell me about your lives. I hear Peter is to begin work with his father. So you and your father will lose your tall, strong helper, Ted.”

“Perhaps not,” I said. “I think Peter should stay with us longer and learn to read. He’ll need to know—”

I didn’t finish the sentence. From behind the curtain came the sound of loud voices speaking Cantonese.

Sing Kee’s face grew serious. “Excuse. I am needed.” He pushed through the curtain, adjusting it behind him so Peter and I couldn’t see into the store.

I heard Sing Kee speaking softly, as if trying to restore calm, but the other voices became louder, the talking faster, and Sing Kee’s voice was lost. “Are those men angry?” I asked Peter. “Should we go and help your uncle?”

Peter had grown very still. He was listening hard. “No,” he whispered. “Stay here. Stay quiet.”

I looked at him, and he shook his head, placing a finger across his lips, hushing me. “Please, sir,” he added.

So I stayed silent and listened as the voices swirled around the shop a few feet from me. I heard Sing Kee speak again. This time his voice, too, was loud. Then there was another burst of noise, followed by Sing Kee’s voice again, even louder. After that there was silence.

Peter had grown pale. His hands were trembling, the soup bowl he was clutching threatening to spill. “Shhh,” he whispered.

Standing, I crossed over to him, took the soup from his hands, and placed it on a small table with my own bowl. Then I stayed beside him, ready to help him or Sing Kee should my assistance be needed.

The quiet lasted for what seemed like a long time. I heard whispering, then footsteps and the sound of the front door opening and closing. Finally Sing Kee pushed aside the curtain and came back into the room. “They have gone. For now.”

“Uncle,” Peter asked, “what will happen?”

“I do not know. But you must leave. Quickly.”

“But we’re going to ask Peter’s father for permission—”

“Today is not a good day for you to ask a favour in Chinatown, Ted,” Sing Kee said.

“Why not?”

“It does not concern you. Please go away. I will speak to Mr. Lee about Peter working longer in your carpentry shop, but not today. Today we have other things on our minds.”

“What things?” I asked.

But Sing Kee wouldn’t tell me, and neither would Peter. At least not at first.

Back at the carpentry shop I asked him again. “What’s the trouble, Peter? What’s happening?”

“It is a Chinese matter, Ted. I must not speak of it.”

“But you know what’s going on, don’t you? You understood what those men in Sing Kee’s store were saying. Tell me. Perhaps I can help.”

“I do not think so. But thank you, sir...Ted.”

“Tell me and let me decide for myself.”

“I do not think my uncle would be pleased if I repeated what was said.”

“Then I won’t mention to Sing Kee that you told me. You look worried, Peter. Sing Kee was worried, too. What’s happening?”

Peter eyed the door, as if making sure it was tightly closed. Carefully he put the broom away, leaning it against the wall where it belonged, then took the few shavings he had swept from the floor over to the stove. Lifting the iron cover, he tossed them in. They crackled and sparked, the fire briefly flaring up and lighting his face. I barely heard his words when he spoke.

“It is the Frenchman, and his friends.”

For a moment I wasn’t sure who he meant. “Frenchman?”

“The one who killed Ah Mow.”

“Henri Tremblay? I thought he left town for the winter.”

“Only for a while. He owns a store at Mosquito Creek. He was there, but he has come back.”

“I didn’t know he was in Barkerville. I haven’t seen him.” My legs suddenly felt weak, so I pulled out a chair and sat.

“But many Chinese have seen him,” Peter said. “Every day. Mr. Tremblay spends much time in Chinatown—at the restaurants, the gambling houses. He is always there.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He talks very loudly so all can hear. He calls the Chinese liars, and other names. Also he laughs. His friends laugh with him.”

“Why do they laugh?”

“They say that he will never go to jail, that those who saw him kill Ah Mow will not dare speak against him at the trial.”

“Why would the witnesses not repeat what they said at the inquest?”

“They are afraid of what will happen to them if they tell the truth.”

“Nothing will happen. The law will protect them.”

Peter studied me for a long time, his face motionless. Then he smiled weakly. “Ted, you are a good person, but you do not understand. Many Chinese do not think Ah Mow will find justice in the court.”

“Of course there will be justice, Peter.”

“If you say so, sir...Ted. But the witnesses do not believe that. They are afraid. The Frenchman and his friends tell them they will be harmed if they speak the truth.”

“Mr. Tremblay is threatening them? He can’t do that.”

Peter stared at me strangely. “Who tells the Frenchman what he can do or cannot do? The chief constable does not. The judge does not. Mr. Tremblay is not even in jail. He walks the streets and does what he wishes.”

“You should report him to the chief constable, Peter.”

“Would the chief constable believe? Only Chinese hear the Frenchman say those things. White men think Chinese people lie.”

“But—”

“Some Chinese do not want to wait for the trial. They want to take law into their own hands. They say one life calls for another life.”

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “Those men in Sing Kee’s store want to kill Mr. Tremblay?”

“Yes, but they will not. They promise Sing Kee they will hurt no one. My uncle spoke wisely to them. He say it would be bad for all Chinese if they kill a white man. He say to wait for the court to decide.”

“And they agreed?”

“Yes. For now. But they are very angry at the Frenchman.”

I thought for a moment. “They have a right to be angry, Peter, but not a right to kill. Maybe I can speak to Mr. Tremblay and ask him to stay away from Chinatown until the trial is over.”

What had I just said? My mouth had gone dry when the words pushed their way out. “I will talk to him,” I said again, swallowing hard as I spoke, as if I wanted to take the words back.

“No, sir...Ted. Thank you, but you must not do that. Perhaps you will be witness at the trial. We need you. You respect Chinese people. You will say truly what you saw, and the judge and the jury will believe you. Besides, the Frenchman and his friends would not listen to you.”

No, they wouldn’t, I thought, remembering how Henri Tremblay had laughed when he called me “the boy who is almost docteur.”

“But we must do something. I’ll tell Chief Constable Lindsay. He’ll believe me.” I stood, bumping against the worktable and knocking over a block of wood. It thumped loudly when it hit the floor, and Peter and I jumped.

“Excuse me, sir...Ted, but if you go to the law, it will not help. It will make things worse. Mr. Tremblay and Chief Constable Lindsay are friends. They play cards, drink together. The chief constable will not believe you, same as he will not believe us.”

“The chief constable is a good man—” I began.

“Perhaps so, but he is white and we are Chinese. Please, Ted, do nothing for now. If I hear that trouble is coming, I will tell you. I promise. But you must promise me that you will talk to no one.”

I considered his request, then said, “Very well...I promise. We’ll hope nothing bad happens.”

“Perhaps Henri Tremblay will go back to Mosquito Creek,” Peter said. “If he will stay there until the trial, then we will not have trouble.”

“Let’s hope he stays away then,” I said.