Читать книгу Gold Digger - Vicki Delany - Страница 7

Angus MacGillivray had never enjoyed himself so much in all of his life as he followed Constable Sterling on his rounds.

Wherever they went, men nodded at Sterling; the few women smiled and occasionally blushed, and everyone grinned at the sight of the gangly boy tagging along at the constable’s side.

It was early evening when they made their way down Front Street. The street was filling with men headed for the bars and the gambling tables. The dance halls didn’t open until eight, but the crowd would find ways to entertain themselves in the time remaining.

In front of the Savoy a drunk straightened up from a muddy puddle of his own vomit, clutching his stomach and emitting a low moan, sounding much like a cow in labour. Ray Walker stood in the doorway, disgust filling his battered face. He shook his head, caught Sterling’s eye, nodded, called a greeting to Angus and went back inside. The drunk turned and tripped. He waved his arms in the air like an outof-control windmill, but to no avail, and pitched forward into the street, collapsing face first into the mud.

Several men were lounging outside the bars; they laughed. A plainly dressed, no-nonsense woman with a bosom like the bow of an ocean liner threw the drunk a look that would curdle milk and gave him wide berth. Sterling walked over to the moaning pile of mud. “Get up, man. Horse ’n wagon’ll be coming down this road any minute, and then you’ll be done for.”

The man groaned.

“Get up.” Sterling kicked at the fellow’s ribs, barely making contact.

The drunk staggered to his feet as the onlookers cheered. Many wore suits that were once of high quality, but that they no longer had the money—or the energy—to maintain. They were young, with the frightened, vacant look of privileged young men who’d set out seeking thrilling adventure and found only hardship and toil.

“Don’t you fellows have any place to be getting to?” Sterling snarled at them. “If you don’t, wood needs chopping down at the Fort.”

They scattered, looking for another place to drink and to pass the time until they could find passage out of this God-forsaken place.

“Many thanks, Cons’ble,” the drunk mumbled, touching the brim of his hat, which miraculously hadn’t come off in the fall. He staggered down the street, trying to keep some semblance of dignity whilst coated in reeking, gluttonous muck from head to toe.

Sterling turned to Angus. “Before the dance halls open, I’m going into Paradise Alley. You can’t come with me.”

Angus’s heart sank—he’d been looking forward to the chance to have a good long look around the infamous Paradise Alley, while appearing authoritative and responsible, not like a boy who’d snuck out after his mother’d gone to bed. “I know what sort of things happen there,” he said, hoping to sound mature and responsible.

“Do you, now?” Sterling didn’t sound impressed at Angus’s maturity, so the boy hurried to add, “My ma told me.”

“What did she tell you?”

“To stay well away from there and not to talk to any of the ladies, even if they talk to me first, except to say hello which is only polite, of course.”

“Of course.” “But it’ll be fine with her as long as you’re with me.”

The edges of Sterling’s mouth turned up.

“Let’s go>then. But if there’s any trouble, you get yourself out of there. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

They left Front Street and walked east on Queen to the section of road below Second Avenue known to everyone as Paradise Alley.

The street was narrow, lined on either side with a wooden boardwalk and the occasional plank, or duckboard, stretched across the road. The cribs, where the women conducted their trade, were tiny, some of them no more than three or four feet across, and packed together, wall touching wall, with pointed roofs and a single tiny window inset beside the door. A name was painted over most of the doorways. Some of the women smiled at Angus and Sterling, a few seductive and inviting, but most merely extending greetings to a friendly face. Some turned their heads away and hurried past.

“My father’s a preacher,” the constable said, as much to himself as to Angus. “When I was growing up, he talked a lot about heaven and hell. I don’t think he’d be able to imagine a place further from paradise than this wretched, mud-streaked patch of humanity.”

Angus said nothing.

The women were plain-faced and sturdy, dressed in shapeless, well-worn work dresses. A few had tried to add some cheer to their drab surroundings, and even drabber lives, by threading colourful ribbons through their hair or putting a touch of sequins on their belt or a scrap of fur or lace on the collar. Their hands and faces were red and chapped from hard living in a hostile climate, and many had missing teeth. The road to the Klondike wasn’t for delicate women.

A woman stood on the boardwalk on the other side of the street, watching them. “Lovely day, ain’t it, Constable?” she called.

“Lovely.”

“Nice lad you’ve got ’ere. Looks like a perfect angel. Your favourite?”

“Watch your mouth, Joey.”

She was tiny, the size of an undernourished child; the bones of her wrists as delicate as a bird’s. Angus knew who she was: everyone knew who she was. Madame Josephine LeGrand owned many of the cribs that lined Paradise Alley. And, even though the law didn’t approve, she owned the women who worked in those cribs as well. Midwest farm and eastern factory girls looking for adventure, abandoned wives trying to make a living, seasoned prostitutes from Montreal, Chicago, St. Louis or San Francisco, Joey LeGrand had paid their way to the Klondike, where they now worked, day and, mostly, night to pay for their passage.

Angus stared at her open-mouthed; his mother had warned him to have nothing to do with the small woman with the Quebec accent.

Joey stared back. The smile on her thin lips didn’t touch her eyes. She placed her child-sized feet on the duckboards and crossed the road. Her dress was of plain homespun, her brown hair streaked with grey and pulled back into a severe bun, her only jewellery a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Angus stuttered. “I’m…”

“Never mind,” Sterling interrupted.

She folded her petite white hands in front of her and smiled up at Angus. “No matter,” she shrugged. “I can guess the lad’s name.” The smile fell away and her attention shifted. “Any reason you’re in the neighbour-hood, Constable?”

“Checking that the law is being upheld, Madame LeGrand. Even in Paradise Alley.”

“Oh, yes. The Law. Me, I never forget about the importance and the power of The Law.”

“See you keep it that way.” “Certainement, monsieur. Bon soir.” She grinned at him like a cat at play with a particularly stupid mouse.

Sterling didn’t say goodbye. He continued on his rounds, an unusually silent Angus following.

“Anyone ever show you how to box, Angus?” The constable said, apparently out of nowhere.

“No, sir. But I’d like to learn.”

“You’re growing into a big lad, Angus. Be not much longer before some men in this town try to take you on, not caring how young you are. Sergeant Lancaster was the boxing champion of Manitoba in his youth, I hear.”

Angus’s initial flush of excitement was quickly replaced by disappointment. He looked at his shuffling feet. “My mother won’t allow it, sir. She doesn’t want to hear about me fighting.”

“You mother doesn’t have to know.”

Angus lifted his head. “Would he charge for lessons? Ma won’t pay.”

“He loves to teach boys. He’ll probably do it for free.”

“When can I start? Tomorrow?”

Sterling laughed. “Let me talk to Lancaster first. We’ll work something out, and I’ll let you know.”

They walked down Front Street. It was almost eight o’clock, but the northern sun was warm on their faces. Outside the Savoy, Helen Saunderson was standing on the boardwalk, her eyes red from weeping, holding a welllaundered and heavily mended handkerchief to her nose. Jack Ireland, the American newspaperman, stood beside her, writing in a small notebook.

“Evening, Mrs. Saunderson,” Sterling said. “Everything all right here?”

“Fine, thank you, Constable. Evenin’ Angus.” Air whistled through the woman’s missing teeth. She blew her nose, the sound like a Prairie tornado. “I’m only telling Mr. Ireland here ’bout what happened to my man, Jim.”

Ireland patted Mrs. Saunderson’s shoulder. “There, there, my dear. You cry all you want. Such a tragic story.”

She burst into another round of sobs and buried her face in her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Passersby tossed her curious stares and gave them a wide berth.

“Are you sure you want to be talking to a reporter, Helen?” Sterling said.

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Constable. Not unless the telling of a tragic story is against the law up here,” Ireland said.

“I was asking the lady.”

“I want folks to know what he done to me. My own brother. Took everything I had in the world and left the little uns to starve.”

Angus’s mother had told him the story: Helen’s husband Jim and her brother had a claim out on Bonanza Creek. At first they were among the lucky ones, striking gold their first month on the river. But luck soon abandoned them, as she so often does, when loose gravel on a cliff face crumbled beneath Jim, and he fell to his death on the rocks below. It wasn’t much of a tumble either, as the story went, only a few feet, but the back of his head met with the pointed edge of a sharp rock. His partner, Helen’s own brother, John, took their gold and headed out of the territory before Helen had time to make her way to the base of the cliff and recover the body. She arrived in town with her husband’s remains, his mining equipment, and four children under the age of twelve.

The Savoy’s housekeeper had quit just a few days before, walked out in the middle of her shift having accepted a proposal of marriage on the spot from a man she’d never before laid eyes on. Not incidentally, he’d found gold and was celebrating his good fortune. So Helen was offered the job, and with just enough hesitation to assuage her pride, she accepted.

A couple of miners, their hair and clothes still thick with the dust of the dig, stopped at the foot of the step. They looked at the weeping woman, the well-dressed older man taking notes, the boy, the police officer, and hurried down the street in search of a more hospitable drinking place.

“Some privacy, please, Constable.” Ireland patted Mrs. Saunderson with one hand and dug in his pockets in search of a cigar with the other.

Mrs. Saunderson gulped, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath, almost visibly gathering her courage. “If it weren’t for Mrs. MacGillivray, I can tell you, sir, there’s no telling what woulda become of my youngins. This ain’t no town for a woman without a man, and four children. No, sir. You tell your newspaper people that Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray is a fine woman. None better.”

“I’ll do that,” Ireland said, his eyes roaming the street in search of the next story.

“Mrs. MacGillivray once owned a grand hotel in London, England.” Helen’s eyes widened at the thought of how fine a grand London hotel would be. Deep lines scored her face, and the delicate skin under her eyes, as dark as a grate full of coal, drooped towards her sunken cheeks. The effects of cold, hard work, grief and the scurvy that had stalked the town over the winter past combined to make her look twenty years older than she probably was.

“What the heck’s going on out here?” Ray Walker stood in the doorway. “Sorry Angus, Helen. Didn’t see you there. What’re you doing standing about on the stoop? Ye’r blocking the doorway. Customers can’t get themselves through.”

Sterling looked at Ireland. “Is it necessary to stand in the entrance?”

Ireland straightened his perfectly aligned tie. “Mrs. Saunderson wanted to tell me her sad story. I’m a newspaper reporter. Hearing people’s stories is my job; it’s why I’ve come to the Yukon Territory. Certainly for no other reason.” He laughed. No one joined in.

“Then take yourselves down the street. Mr. Walker has a business to run.”

“I’ve all the information I need for now. Thank you,” Ireland said. Mrs. Saunderson buried her life-worn face in the rag of the handkerchief. Ireland touched the brim of his fine hat, which was not marked by even the slightest touch of dust, and stepped into the street.

“You’ll remember my brother’s name, John O’Reilly, won’t you?” Helen called. “If it weren’t for Mrs. Mac…”

Ireland walked away, his step jaunty. He’d only gone a couple of feet when a pack of half-wild dogs rounded the corner. Angus couldn’t see what they were chasing, but they were hot after something. Ireland leapt backwards and would have fallen into the mud had he not stumbled into a huge sourdough.

“Watch where you’re goin’, damned fool.” At first, Ireland looked as if he were about to give the man an argument. Then he glanced at the bulk looming over him and at the man’s biceps—each the size of a side of ham—and thought better of it.

Helen leaned her hefty frame up against the wall and sobbed into her handkerchief.

“Mrs. Saunderson should sit down,” Angus said. “And she’d probably like a cup of tea.”

She gave Angus a small but grateful smile.

“Get off the stoop, will ye?” Ray said. “Not a customer’s come through the doorway since you been standing there. Keep this up, and we’ll be outta business. Helen, man’s been sick in the gambling hall. You don’t clean it up quick, it’ll be tracked all over the place, and Fee’ll have yer hide.”

Helen wiped her eyes and tucked her handkerchief into the sleeve of her dress.

They followed Ray into the gloom of the Savoy. The place had a fine name, and a nice sign hanging outside. But inside it was exactly the same as every other saloon in Dawson: looking as if it had been thrown up in a day—which it had. The floorboards had been slapped together out of green wood; the ceiling was spotted with damp. But the customers stood four or five deep at the bar, and men were pushing their way into the gambling hall, all before the theatre and dance hall opened for the start of the real action.

“It was right good to have someone to talk to,” Mrs. Saunderson said. “Someone what might write about what John did to us. Maybe he’ll read about it and feel bad and come back with my Jim’s gold.”

She made her way through the crowd to the small, dark room behind the bar where she kept her rags and pail.