by Rebecca Tope
Both girls had enjoyed a range of old tales as children: tales of fairies, dragons, giants and other worlds. These stories remained fresh in their memories, childhood not so very long gone, after all. Gradually, in quiet moments, sitting together on their little veranda, they wove new legends about this place they had come to, and about which so little was known. They invented unexplored tracks which led to magical lands. Caves, hollow trees, bottomless pools – all might provide a doorway into various kinds of fairyland. There would always be gold waiting for them, fashioned into jewellery and ornaments, as well as in piles of radiant coins, fresh-minted. Fanny began to dream of these inventions, waking slowly, unsure of what was reality and what mere childish romanticising.
It was a long time before they understood that this storytelling was in part a way of preparing for the coming child. They were creating a place that would welcome and shelter the baby. No need to build the new room or hire the new nursemaid. If they dreamed hard enough, all would come to them by sheer magic.
Fanny knew that this was folly, and yet she made no attempt to resist. It was too hot, too quiet, for worry to intrude. Carola had retreated into this fantasy world, and nothing would bring her out of it until she was ready. By late September, perhaps, when it turned grey and windy, she would return to her senses.
There were always the men, of course. Men with their lives changed wonderfully by the gold they had found, looking to become honest burghers in this pleasant town. Chemeketa itself acquired a subtle atmosphere of superiority and complacency. The town council cautiously welcomed new members – men with business sense and ambition. The incessant stories emerging from California confirmed the growing Oregon town in its determination to remain above all civilised. Gambling, drinking and whoring would all be strictly controlled. Children would be educated, and decent family life would be encouraged. The needs of the many single men were tacitly acknowledged in the tolerance given to the Misses Francesca and Carlotta. Our whores are of a different kind to those in San Francisco, was the general feeling. They did not paint their faces or raise their skirts to the knee. There were no fights or drunken misbehaviour on their premises. And as whispers began to the effect that Miss Carlotta had got herself in the family way, it was with as much pity as disgust. One or two childless wives even found themselves wondering whether there might be an opportunity to adopt.
On a day-to-day basis, there was little direct interaction between the girls and the townsfolk. They would go to the stores and conduct their transactions amicably. They would nod to people in the street and smile at children. Fanny sometimes petted dogs. Everyone knew full well who they were and what they did. But nobody – certainly no woman – ever referred to it, even obliquely. There were always men with familiar faces going about their business, who would politely raise their hats, for the most part. The first time one of them attempted to engage Carola in conversation, she quickly understood that this was potentially troublesome. If the man expected one day to find himself a wife from amongst the daughters of Chemeketa, he would do well to conceal his acquaintance with the local whorehouse. The veneer of civilisation was too fragile for risky behaviour. The collective resolve to maintain it demanded the most delicate manoeuvring on the part of everybody concerned. ‘We must be sure to advise them that there is no need to notice us outside these walls,’ said Fanny, when Carola raised the matter. ‘We should not be offended. Our own success depends on keeping the townsfolk happy. They could drive us out if they took against us.’
One man was exempted from this regulation. Charlie, who had become something of a pet with Fanny, made no secret of his friendship with her. On his seventh or eighth visit, in the middle of June, she mentioned it to him. ‘You make it so plain that you are known to me,’ she began. ‘What will people think?’
He rubbed his face. ‘They will think me a naturally virile man. A buck, with the money and appetite to visit you regularly. That is worth a good deal to me.’
She smiled and said nothing.
He became more serious, and more revealing. ‘Somehow, my deformity is known to many in town. My mother and brother, the lads I was schooled with – they will all have mentioned it, and the knowledge is commonly spread. I have lived here for twenty years. My uncle was a missionary. My father built half the homes here. If I come to a young lady with my trouble, nobody will judge me harshly for it. They will perhaps believe that you have worked some sort of miracle on me. I believe, my sweet, that you have done us both considerable good – and I see no reason to hide it.’
Indeed, there did seem to be an improvement in his performance. His truncated and scarred member was responding to being used as nature intended, albeit it in a small way. It had almost no sensation, and yet Fanny had shown him that this was not in itself an obstacle. The mysterious responses, that surely had as much to do with the mind or the nerves as direct contact, gave him the impetus to copulate, and his emissions were every bit as copious as any other man’s. His tentative hope of a normal family life was strengthened by her assurances that he would indeed be able to father children.
As she came to know him better, Fanny’s rage grew against the foolish mother who needlessly inflicted such harm on her infant son. Customs, rituals, superstitions – were they not made mock of in the case of the Indians, with their totems and strange dances? Yet there were practices every bit as ridiculous amongst Christians, Jews and Mormons. For what, Fanny asked herself. As a means of distinguishing one tribe from another, in the case of the Indians. They too interfered with their sons’ private parts, if the rumours could be believed. She sighed in frustration. A woman’s lot was seemingly to console, repair and distract her men after all the damage they spent their time wreaking.
Charlie took a long time to notice Carola’s condition. It was early August before his head jerked forward one evening, as she brought him his glass of whiskey, and his eyes fixed on her belly. ‘Is that—? Are you—?’ he stammered. Then he blushed and looked away. ‘It is not my place to enquire,’ he added stiffly. ‘Forgive me.’
Carola glanced down at herself and nodded. ‘It is as it seems,’ she said. ‘There is no longer any hiding it.’
His confusion deepened and he turned to Fanny. ‘A child is always a cause for joy,’ he said. ‘Or so my uncle would maintain.’
‘As did our priests, back in Providence,’ Fanny agreed. ‘The Roman Catholic church is greedy for children, or so my mother would say. They would have their women deliver a new one every year, and trust to the Lord to provide.’ She thought once again of the poor smothered infants born to the abused nuns in the Maria Monk revelations. There was a case where Catholics did not welcome and celebrate a misbegotten babe.
Charlie let the subject drop, but Fanny could not avoid some further thoughts on the matter. She was put in mind of her mother, who had a precarious respect for some of the priestly utterances that came her way. When Patrick Collins had announced his intention to transport his family on the trail to Oregon, his wife’s first comment had been, ‘And shall we leave behind all this Catholic flummery, then?’
Patrick had been scandalised at first, and then amused. ‘No doubt there will be churches aplenty in the new cities that we will see rising from the wilderness,’ he said, with due pomposity. ‘But I imagine there will be little obligation upon us to attend – at least in the early years.’
And now, in the empty land south of the Columbia River and east of Oregon City, there was as yet little sign of new churches to accompany the many new homes, barns and stables. The Collins family said their prayers together each evening, and held a special service on the Sabbath. For Fanny’s mother, that was evidently quite enough.
The summer continued hot and dry, for what felt like endlessly long months. Through June and July, very little happened, so that anxiety for the future mellowed into an unthinking belief that life would carry on in the same way forever. Hugo had a more stimulating existence than either of his mistresses, to judge by the reports of
his exploits that came back to their ears. Left to wander freely all day, he would often be gone for many hours at a time, returning tired and satisfied, ready for his evening duties. In late June, a homesteader from two miles north of the town boundary drew up in his pony and trap outside the boudoir. While he sat uncertainly eyeing the colourful flowers in their pots and boxes, Hugo bounded joyfully down the steps to greet him. Fanny followed, curious about this visitor. ‘Jonas Harrison, Ma’am,’ he introduced himself, with a formal bow. ‘It has taken me a full day of enquiries to track down your animal.’ He scowled at Hugo, who paid no notice and merely jumped at the footboard with high enthusiasm.
‘He knows you,’ said Fanny.
‘He does indeed. And he knows my Bessie even better.’ He leaned backwards over the bed of his cart, and threw back a light cotton sheet. Beneath it was a wriggling bed of brindle, white and grey fur. ‘Five unwanted pups,’ said Mr Harrison. ‘Sired by your untrammelled beast.’
Like any girl, Fanny was entranced. She was also far from surprised. This was the usual business with dogs, after all, as her sister Lizzie could testify. ‘What kind of dog is your Bessie?’ she asked, trying to guess from the appearance of the pups. She lifted up a soft grey-and-white specimen, which looked as different from Hugo as could be imagined.
‘A prize example of a breed from Switzerland,’ he replied. ‘They call them Saint Bernards.’
‘How old are these babies?’
‘Six weeks, close enough.’
Fanny hefted the pup, which required two hands to contain. ‘Surely this is large for its age?’
‘A Saint Bernard is a very large dog, Ma’am. And your creature is no dwarfling. Only a dog of considerable size could…er…manage.’
Fanny giggled, realising that Mr Harrison had not fully grasped the nature of her business. What, she wondered, did he think a boudoir was?
‘And you are come to town to sell them?’
He was taken aback. ‘Sell? What fool would want such as these? I was all for drowning them at birth, but my daughters begged me to spare them. There are two left at home, besides these.’
‘So – what?’
‘They are yours. Your dog sired them. You must take responsibility for them.’
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Fanny. ‘Where do you get such a notion? What am I to do with them, pray?’ But she still held the fluffy animal to her cheek, instinctively cradling it against any harm.
‘Let them loose, to make their own way in the world, if that’s the best you can do.’
‘You might have done that yourself, just as readily.’
‘They stand a better chance amongst the stores and businesses of a town. They can keep the rats at bay, and forage for scraps around the slaughterhouse.’
At this point, Carola came to the top of the steps, wondering where Fanny had gone. Her reaction on seeing what Fanny was holding was instant. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried. ‘Fanny – whatever you are planning, it cannot be. I forbid it.’
‘My friend is not enamoured of dogs,’ Fanny explained.
Jonas Harrison shrugged.
‘You cannot simply leave them here,’ she tried. ‘That is barbarous.’
‘I have done more than many men would do. They are clean and healthy. They will grow large and good-natured. I dare say you might indeed find one or two families soft enough to pay money for such a dog. Take them, with my blessing.’ He glared down at Hugo. ‘And tell this fellow he is no longer welcome at my place.’
He unloaded his cargo with considerably more gentleness than his words might suggest. Pups trotted inquisitively up and down the street, with Hugo following them in stark amazement. Fanny put her favourite down, watching its progress like a fond mother.
‘It’s a little bitch,’ she told Carola. ‘So pretty!’
‘There is no space for another dog,’ said Carola firmly.
‘The yard is perfectly big enough for a second kennel,’ Fanny argued. ‘It is big enough for another six, in fact.’
‘That’ll be for when she has pups of her own, I suppose? Sired by her own father, like as not.’
‘Let me take them about town, to test the response,’ said Fanny resignedly. ‘I am teasing you, Carrie. A new dog would be a mistake, I know.’
True to her word, Fanny bundled the pups into the back yard, and selecting one at random, took it to a part of town where there were still open spaces with trees. The homes here were large and well-built, their owners confident of prosperity ahead. Boldly, she rapped on the front door of the first house she came to. It was opened by a boy of fourteen or thereabouts, whose eyes widened at the sight of the dog. ‘He is for sale,’ said Fanny. ‘Ten dollars.’
The boy reached out, as Fanny herself had done, magnetised by the appeal of the youngster. ‘I will give you four,’ he said.
‘Seven.’
‘Five.’
‘It’s a deal. Should you not first consult with your elders, though? Will they permit you to acquire a dog without discussion?’
The boy had taken a banknote from his breeches and was holding it out to her. ‘I am my own master,’ he said sternly. ‘And the dog will be an asset. What age is he?’
‘Six weeks. He will need milk to drink, and firm training. His parents are both of considerable size.’ She felt a pang of concern for the little dog, at the same time as marvelling at the ease of his disposal. ‘There are four more,’ she added. ‘Would you know of anyone else who might like one?’
‘Males or females?’
Fanny had prepared for the question. ‘Three males and a female.’
‘I believe you might try yonder.’ He pointed to a large house on rising land to the east. ‘Their guard dog is growing old and they are seeking a successor.’
‘Many thanks, young sir,’ said Fanny, thinking she might meet this lad again in the course of her business, before another year or so had passed.
The second pup sold almost as quickly, but the remaining three lingered in the yard for two more days, before both the males were purchased by a horse dealer who already possessed a strange-looking beast he said had come from China. Fully grown, it was not much bigger than the pups, and Fanny felt obliged to warn once more that they would become immense in time. The man seemed unconcerned.
‘Chemeketa has grown more than I realised,’ Fanny told Carola. ‘There are whole areas full of new houses, that I have never seen before. They stand on land that was mere grass half a year since.’
‘No difficulty, then, in finding a home for Miss Grey,’ said Carola. They had carelessly named the little bitch puppy, hardly knowing they did so. Left alone, she whined and yapped in the yard, until they sent Hugo out to entertain her. The resulting game was a delight to observe.
‘Most likely not,’ said Fanny peaceably. ‘But I do not intend to go out again today. Time enough for it another day.’
Carola folded her arms and looked at Fanny severely from under her brows. ‘The dog must go,’ she said. ‘Delay will only make it harder.’
Fanny bit back the protest that came to mind – that Carola might well find herself in a similar position in a few months time, and would she then be so heartless, when it came to finding a new home for her own baby? It was folly, she knew, to compare a human child to a dog, but the affection she already felt for Miss Grey had taken a secure root in her heart and the prospect of separation hurt her.
The pup’s fate was quickly sealed, however, when a woman came briskly to the door the next morning and asked whether they had any more dogs for sale. ‘My friend’s boy has taken one, and now my own sons are clamouring for a similar pet.’
It was the boy who had taken the first pup she was meaning. ‘There is just one remaining,’ she said reluctantly. ‘A bitch. We call her Miss Grey,’ she added foolishly.
‘May I see?’
Assuming the respectable housewife would be averse to stepping into a house of ill repute, Fanny left her standing on the veranda while she fetched the puppy. The faithless
little creature showed every sign of adoration for the woman, the moment she laid eyes on her. Fanny put her down, and she rushed squirmingly to the newcomer, pawing at the hem of her frock, and squeaking excitedly. The woman bent down and lifted her up to her face.
‘Well, then, aren’t you a sweet thing!’
Hugo now came strolling up to inspect the visitor. ‘This is the sire,’ said Fanny. ‘And the dam is almost as large, I believe.’
‘I have seen him,’ the woman nodded. ‘A good-natured giant.’ She patted the great head, keeping the pup secure under one arm. ‘Might I adopt your little daughter, then?’ she asked him.
It was with very mixed emotions that Fanny left Miss Grey go. The pain of separation dominated the relief that the woman was so soft-hearted. Until then she had only known her sister Lizzie to use such blandishments out loud to a dog. Hugo too seemed bereft, even after the short acquaintance with his offspring. He followed Fanny around, with lowered head, getting in her way.
And then the whole thing happened all over again.
Chapter Eighteen
The second time, Hugo’s accuser was a lot less forgiving. The owner of the bitch tracked Fanny and her dog down, as the previous one had done, and came banging on the door one afternoon. At his side was a tall bony wife, and a ragged-looking daughter. His speech was mangled with expletives and incoherence, but the sense soon became apparent. His dog was employed to ward off intruders, kept on a chain outside. When it unexpectedly delivered six whelps, it managed to keep them hidden for almost two weeks in the back of a kennel.
