by Rebecca Tope
Fanny made a questioning sound.
‘It growed with the abuse. Never knowed that’d happen. It impedes me inside my pants, when it’s up. Can’t walk or ride without it twisting and getting hurt. Darn thing. I’d be better off without it.’
Fanny thought of her friend Charlie and his truncated organ. ‘Surely not,’ she said with a smile. ‘Most men would be proud of such size and power.’
‘Most women flinch away at the sight of it. They say it’d tear them inside if I were to get it in them. Were you hurt, Miss? I dare say you were.’
‘Just a little,’ she admitted.
‘There – and you a working lady, seeing so much action an’ all. I was hopin’ you’d accommodate more easily.’ He stammered to a stop, as if hearing the conversation for the first time. ‘Shouldn’t be speakin’ about it,’ he mumbled. ‘’Tain’t nice.’
Fanny had long since understood that the talk was almost as much of the service as the action. Men liked to discuss their private thoughts and urges. Some of them kept up a commentary throughout the entire procedure, using dirty words and goading themselves on with remarks on how prodigiously they were performing. She knew they’d like her to join in, but she never quite found the voice they expected.
‘Once I find myself a good vein of gold, I shall get a wife and treat her gentle,’ he asserted.
‘You are heading down to California, then?’
His eyes narrowed, giving his face a shadowed look in the dim lamplight. ‘Not so far,’ he said. ‘I’m with two others. One’s a student of geology, and he’s done some investigatin’. Says there’s sure to be gold in other places, not where all the digging is now. Has a few ideas that seem worth checkin’ out. Can’t say no more’n that.’
‘In Oregon?’ she demanded, unsure as to whether such a prospect was welcome. Stories of conditions in San Francisco gave pause to the people further north. Greed, violence, drink and hordes of foreigners painted a picture that nobody could envy.
‘Maybe,’ he nodded. Then he sat up and swung himself off the bed. His hour was almost up, and he extracted her payment from a pouch tied to his belt. ‘An extra dollar for your pains,’ he added, as if bestowing great largesse.
Downstairs, Carola was entertaining another man, who showed much less sign of urgency. Fanny caught the end of a long story about a sister who had no fewer than ten children, all born easily and raised to be fit and healthy. Carola rolled her eyes at Fanny, behind his back, and tilted her head towards the stairs, pleadingly. It had recently dawned on Fanny that her friend was superstitious about any such efforts to assure her that her confinement would go well. She greatly preferred the subject to go unmentioned by anyone.
The first man was despatched. The visit to the privy was prolonged by a serious difficulty in extracting the sponge from some unreachable cavity that Fanny could only envisage as dark and fleshy, with inexplicable folds and knobs. Her fingers could not reach far enough to grasp the thing, so she cautiously employed a hook on a stick, that Carola had earlier fashioned for just this purpose. She had used it herself two or three times, but Fanny had never found the need. At last it emerged, leaving her sore and panting.
With considerable reluctance she washed, soaked and replaced the sponge; then returned to her customer.
He was of middle age, with faded grey eyes and a hesitant manner. His performance was limp and brief. He apologised profusely, while Fanny thanked her stars for him. ‘Never been to such a place as this,’ he confessed. ‘Family’s been in the Oregon territory for a couple of years now. Thinking we might try some gold prospecting, but left it later than we ought. Never meant to get rich that way, seems like. So my brother tells me, anyways. We like the look of this place, to tell you the truth. Thinking I could start myself a small business hereabouts.’
‘What line of business?’ Fanny left a warm hand on his naked chest, as a mark of her relief at his tepid attentions. This was her ideal man: diffident, inexperienced and with an almost non-existent bump of amativeness.
‘Pots,’ he said and his eyes became suddenly bright. ‘China pots. Plates. All the things a family has need of. I have a facility with the clay, you see, and there are excellent deposits on the banks of the Willamette,’ he finished modestly.
‘Wonderful!’ Fanny approved. She dimly understood that here was a man of artistic talent, barely conscious of his bodily needs. Why, she wondered, had he even gone to the trouble of visiting the boudoir at all?
‘I know I have been slow to find my vocation. Events have conspired against me and my brother until now. But at last we have a clear vision. In five years time, the name of Reason B. Hall will be daily currency. My wares will be in every home. And, my dear, I shall deliver to you a full dinner service, free of charge, this time next year. I make you a solemn promise.’
‘And I shall offer you my own poor services, in exchange,’ she said, instantly aware that he had no wish to avail himself again. ‘Or at least, a very good pot of coffee.’
‘You wonder what brings me here,’ he said astutely. ‘And I wonder myself, to tell you the truth. It seemed to be something I should need. I had a wife, five-and-twenty years past. She died of a snake bite before we saw our first year out. I took it as a sign that I was not meant for the domestic life. Since then, I have known perhaps five women, and I have seen cause for much the same excuses that I have given you – every time.’
‘You were testing yourself,’ said Fanny. ‘And you should not. The force that most men locate in their lower regions is instead in your hands. Go and fashion your pots, sir, and I wish you well, I really do.’
When he had gone, Fanny remarked to Carola, who was preparing to retire for the night, ‘You know, Carrie – I learn something new with every man I meet.’
‘Surely the act cannot lend itself to quite such a range of variety?’
‘That was not my meaning. I learn facts concerning the wider world, and the many kinds of work men ply. They have such a great spectrum of ideas and ambitions. That last one is a potter. He means to make a great name for himself by fashioning china for the home. Plates and bowls and the rest. He is inspired.’
Carola paid little attention. She pulled herself up the stairs with a heavy tread. Fanny watched her with a mixture of emotions. Helplessness in the face of implacable nature was the dominant one, allied to a growing detachment from the one-time closeness there had been between them. The coming child would absorb all Carola’s affection and care, leaving Fanny to watch out for herself. This truth recurred to her several times a day, stronger every time.
The next month saw the new pattern strengthening, with Fanny still working and Carola growing slower and bigger. Their plans for a new home in a new town were postponed in the face of practical difficulties and a passive resistance from Fanny. A small but steady flow of men returning from California with gold in their pockets ensured that Chemeketa continued to flourish. Faces that had been seen around town the previous year now reappeared, albeit considerably changed. The transformation from the early excited hopefulness to an almost dazed gratification was like watching one of the tales from A Thousand and One Nights come true before one’s very eyes. What did ordinary men, with scant education and little expectation of wealth or prominence, do with riches when they found it? The question was answered in a thousand different ways, some of them horrifying in their waste and stupidity, others admirable beyond words.
The men of Oregon took pride in their good sense. Compared to the wild bandits from Chile and Mexico who bought silver revolvers and diamond-studded spurs, tossing their money carelessly about so that it was quickly gone, the settlers showed a dreary commitment to investment, family and security. They came back and built homes on prime plots with perfect aspects and extensive lands. They paid for their wives and sweethearts to travel in style from the east, to join them and establish a new life in the soft climes of the west. They set to work to fashion a society that only adopted the finer and more decent aspects of life b
ack east. They were growers above all else. They would preserve the old skills and practices in their craftwork. Wood, leather, pottery, glass and metal would be worked with the employment of hydro power where possible, rather than the smoky coal-fuelled foundries many remembered from their former lives. Oregon would be a clean sweet-smelling state, they insisted. Simplicity lay at the heart of it – though seldom overtly stated. The rigors of the migration, whether on foot, by river or by means of an exhausting sea voyage, had honed the population to the point where fripperies and luxuries were not merely unobtainable, but also undesirable.
Even Carola, from the pampered upper classes of Charleston, had shed most of her old ways since arriving in the west. She had ordered a crib for the babe, made of finest ash wood by a local man who was already renowned for the handsome creations he produced. The Oregon ash tree grew in quantity on all sides, and was prized mainly for flooring in the new homes being constructed. The crib was to have rockers, solid sides and a decorative rail all around. Progress was far from rapid, but Carola was confident it would be finished just as the child was born.
Aside from that, there were few preparations for the coming event. The month of October passed, with little sign of major change, either in the weather or the occupants of the boudoir. Fanny forced occasional discussion as to their future, with little satisfactory outcome. She had quite abandoned demands for a share of Marybelle’s legacy in hard cash. Carola had persuaded her that it was wise to keep the bulk of it in investments, and she was careful to spend the portion she retained in items that would benefit them both. Improvements to the house, new cook pots, a better rug and warmer bedding all met with Fanny’s approval. The bedroom they shared became more and more Fanny’s preserve, as Carola chose to use her ‘business bedroom’ to sleep as she became more unsettled. Two or three times each night she had to use the chamber pot, and often she was seized with cramp in her legs, which required a noisy stomping, often accompanied by groans. By mutual consent, they agreed that it was unreasonable to expect Fanny to endure such disruptions. The unspoken assumption was that both girls and the child would eventually share the large bedroom, if Carola were ever to return to work in the smaller room.
The question as to whether Carola actually would work again remained unanswered. It was hard to imagine her slim and lithe again, attractive enough to gain the men’s custom. She wouldn’t need the money, and she had clearly expressed an intention to leave Chemeketa and begin a new life elsewhere.
But these words did not match her actions. She spent long hours leafing through a book without really reading it. She stitched small garments, but seldom actually completed them. Her belly formed an obstruction that could not be ignored. Fanny privately regarded it as grotesque, the way it made Carola so awkward and unbalanced. The movements inside were sometimes visible, even through layers of clothing. It made her feel queasy to see it. She had been shielded from the facts of pregnancy and childbirth all her life, and has felt little curiosity about it. Only when setting up as a whore had she been forced to learn enough to know how to prevent it happening to her. She remembered the wretched first Mrs Fields, disgustingly failing to carry a child to term. Fanny’s grandmother and sister had attended her as the mysterious half-formed creature was bundled away and never spoken of again. Fanny herself had closed her eyes and ears to the business. Now she wondered whether she had always found it repellent, or whether it was this event on the Trail that had turned her off. Whichever, the fact was that the closer Carola’s confinement came, the more Fanny wished herself at a considerable distance from the event.
‘Who will attend you, when the time comes?’ she asked one day.
Carola frowned. ‘Attend?’
‘A woman who understands the business of childbed,’ Fanny explained. ‘A midwife.’
‘Ah! I believe there is a woman in town,’ was the vague reply. ‘By the name of Margaret. We sent Marybelle to her, did we not? On her first visit to us.’
‘We must contact her, then. Have you no desire to be assured that there is no cause for concern, in these last weeks? A woman might know when we might expect the pains to begin – all that kind of thing.’
‘It is a natural event,’ said Carola. ‘It will come when it is ready.’
‘I dare say.’ But Fanny thought again of Mrs Fields, as well as whispered tales of women dying in their attempts to produce a child. Carola could not be ignorant of the dangers – which meant that she preferred not to think about it. ‘But I must make it clear that I have no knowledge whatever, and can not be relied on. I see my role as taking the dog for a long walk until it is all over and done with.’
Carola laughed. ‘I shall cling to you too tightly for that. When my mother’s slave gave birth, she would have no-one with her but Mama, and the marks of her nails remained on her hands for months.’
Fanny was amazed at this unexpected picture of life on the plantation. She was forced to substantially revise her impression of Carola’s mother. ‘Pity she is not here, then,’ she said.
‘Indeed.’ Carola sniffed, and Fanny realised she was quietly weeping. ‘I have pined for her sorely these past weeks.’
‘Have you informed her, or your brothers, of this addition to your family?’
‘Obviously not. I should have to explain myself, and while I remain here with you, there is little chance of concealing the truth.’
Fanny paused before replying, ‘So when you have removed to Astoria or wherever it is you plan to go, you will send word to your relatives that you are now a mother?’
‘When I have composed a story that will adequately account for it, yes.’
‘A husband, tragically dead after half a year of marriage, for example?’
‘A most probable example,’ Carola agreed.
Fanny found herself angry at this, for a number of reasons. Reuben would be denied. She herself would equally be excised from the story. The year just passed would be retold in almost every respect when Carola recounted the facts of her life. ‘And Marybelle’s money will be reallocated to the dead husband,’ she realised. ‘He was a successful man of business, who left you very well provided.’
Carola huffed impatiently. ‘It would seem, Fanny, that you are more than capable of composing the story on my behalf. I am in awe of your imaginative powers.’
Fanny swallowed back the sharp reply she would have liked to make. Over the last few weeks she had come to suspect that she had the upper hand in the management of daily life. Carola might withhold a share of her inheritance, in the belief that she could influence Fanny in that way, but the reality was that money counted for little in the circumstances. ‘I shall go and seek out the midwife myself,’ she decided. ‘If not for your sake, then for my own. I have no wish to find myself filling her role by default.’
‘The child is not due for a month or more,’ said Carola. ‘There is no urgency.’
Fanny squinted at the vast belly. ‘Another month?’ she repeated doubtfully. ‘I find that hard to credit.’
‘It is beyond debate. We were at your family’s homestead from the middle of February until the final days of March. I cannot swear to the exact date, but I fancy it was close to the 12th day of March that my encounter with Reuben took place. Everyone knows that a child takes nine full months to develop. Therefore, we can take the date it is due to be the 12th of December, or close. It is now the 27th of October. There are many weeks yet to go.’
‘Then I can only say that nine months is a prodigious long time,’ remarked Fanny. ‘A dog takes barely two months to grow a whole litter of offspring.’
‘And I believe an elephant is with child for years,’ laughed Carola. ‘It serves nothing to look for equity in the matter.’
Fanny yielded to her friend’s superior knowledge and tried to focus on the accumulation of savings that had become her primary goal. Four men visited the boudoir that evening, each paying a generous ten dollars for her attentions. Without any deliberate increase in fee, she had become
aware that men who were content with what she gave them – and that was almost all of them – would habitually pay well over the stated price. The economy was booming, they might say, and it was only right to spread the largesse that had been so freely provided by God, or fate or whatever force laid down the wondrous gold for them to find. More than once, Fanny was regaled with awful tales of the whores of San Francisco, and how coarse they were compared to herself.
She was certainly benefiting in a most direct fashion. By the last week of October she had two hundred dollars saved from her earnings. With Carola covering the weekly bills, her own outgoings had shrunk to almost nothing.
She had done the calculation on the evening of October 24th, feeling the warm glow that came from a healthy savings account, and indulging in a small glass of whisky as a private celebration of this feeling, when a man she had met before came through the open front door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She could not recall his name, but he had been an early patron, favouring her over Carola. He had disappeared in the middle of last winter, persuaded by the official validation by the President that there really was gold to be had, free and fair to whoever chose to go digging for it.
‘You are returned, sir,’ said Fanny with a smile. ‘Might I ask how you fared?’
‘You may. Fortune smiled on me, after a shaky beginning. In the four months from February to May, I dug no less than nine hundred ounces of gold from a muddy stretch of riverbed no longer than from here to the stables.’
‘Nine hundred ounces,’ Fanny repeated, attempting to convert this to a more familiar measure. ‘That must be…half a hundredweight,’ she calculated.
‘Close enough,’ he laughed. ‘You are most adept at arithmetic, I see.’
‘And the exchange is twenty dollars per ounce, is it not?’ she pursued, again making mental sums in her head. ‘An easy one —’ She stopped as the result of her figuring presented itself. ‘Eighteen thousand dollars? It cannot be. Eighteen hundred, I mean.’
