by Vicki Delany
“I hear talk that a fellow’s arrived in Dawson with a real cow, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said, ladling more porridge into Angus’s bowl. “Imagine. Milk.” Her tongue fondled the word as if she were dreaming of finding diamonds under her pillow. But she was thinking of something even greater than the Hope Diamond. For if she and I had learned one thing in the starvation winter of ’97—’98, it was that nothing, not gold nor diamonds nor banknotes, nor even one’s good name, mattered a damn when there was nothing to buy to eat.
“Wouldn’t milk be nice, Angus?” I said.
He grinned around a mouthful of grey porridge. “It sure would. I don’t even remember what fresh milk tastes like.”
“Like sunshine falling on the farms of Bavaria,” Mrs. Mann said, passing the sugar bowl.
“It would make a nice change. Buy some if you can. Never mind what it costs. I’ll have real milk in my coffee tomorrow, and Angus can have a glass to drink, and we’ll pour it over the porridge on Monday. Buy enough for yourselves as well. We had a profitable night last night.”
Angus pushed aside his scraped-empty bowl and rose to his feet. “Thanks for the breakfast, Mrs. Mann.” The kitchen was so cramped, he had to squeeze by her to get to the back door. “Please excuse me, Mother.” Something was up: his grammar was too perfect.
“Anything special happening today, Angus?” I asked.
“No, Mother. I thought I might go to the infirmary to check on Miss Vanderhaege.” He twisted his shirtfront in his hands.
“Who?”
“Miss Vanderhaege? From the bakery?”
“Oh, right.”
That the boy was lying, or at least not revealing the truth, was about as obvious as the fact that I wanted milk straight from a cow with no interference by factory nor can if I was ever to enjoy a cup of coffee again.
“Make sure you spend some time with that book of geography.”
“Yes, Mother.” He kissed me on the top of my head and said goodbye to Mrs. Mann. He took his coat from the peg and closed the door gently on the way out. Mrs. Mann’s husband had built the tiny wooden house himself. The walls were thin, and the floorboards loose, so that one always knew exactly what everyone else in the house was doing at any time of the day or night. One morning I couldn’t get to sleep and had lain awake listening to the Manns enjoying an intimate moment—a very long intimate moment—before they rose to begin the day.
At their age!
“Such a nice boy,” my landlady said, gathering Angus’s empty dishes. “But he doesn’t tell the whole truth. Perhaps he visits a young lady in town?”
I finished my coffee with a grimace. There were no signs of any young lady—he wasn’t mooning about, sighing heavily at inappropriate moments or searching for faint stars in the sun-touched night, all the while whispering words of poetry. Besides, Angus was only twelve. No, this was something worse. He was shutting me out, trying to become a man.
So concerned was I by Angus’s strange behaviour that I forgot to worry about Jack Ireland and what further trouble he might cause.
Chapter Fourteen
“How’s the take?”
“Great. Our best night yet. Nothing like being next door to the most exciting event to happen in town all week, and to be the employers of ‘the Hero of the Yukon’ to boot, to have the crowds begging to be allowed through the door.”
On the morning of the eventful Saturday, when I was naïvely hoping I’d seen the last of Jack Ireland, Ray came into my office looking as if he hadn’t slept a wink. And he still wore the same shirt, rumpled and soiled, that he’d had on the previous night.
I put down my pen and tested my left wrist. Mrs. Mann had made up a poultice, which looked only slightly less disgusting than it smelled, and she’d wrapped the whole thing up in a soft, clean cloth. My wrist felt almost normal.
“I’ll go down and open up,” said Ray. “Not dressed like that, you won’t. Go home and wash up and put on a clean shirt.”
He looked at me, his eyes unreadable. “You’re not my boss, Fiona. Last I looked, we owned the Savoy together.”
“I’m not your mother either,” I snapped. “But if I were, I’d tell you to stop mooning over a common or garden, noaccount dance hall girl and pay attention to business. Because if you don’t, we won’t be partners for much longer.”
“Do you want to buy me out? I dunna think ye can afford it. But I might consider an offer.”
My head swam. How had this escalated so fast? Oh, right, I had insulted his ladylove and questioned his business sense.
“Look,” I said, shifting my sling and wincing slightly for effect. “Last night was a bad night for us all, except for the size of this bag of gold.” I nudged the loot with my foot. “You go and get a few hours sleep, and I’ll fetch one of the new fellows to watch the saloon. The blond one seems the brightest. Where’s he staying?”
“McKellen’s on Harper Street.”
“I’ll drag him out of bed and tell him to get to work.”
“I don’t need any sleep. Let Murray alone. I’ll change and be back in time.” He struggled out of the chair. “And, Fee, that perfume you’re wearing? Throw it out.”
* * *
By seven o’clock that evening, we were packed to the rafters. Sam Collins held court behind the bar, pouring drinks, taking money and weighing gold dust, trying to avoid repeating over and over the story of the rescue of the bakery sisters. Being Sam, he downplayed his heroism, but the customers were happy to build it back up again.
I’d put on my best dress, a dangerously low-cut, crimson silk delight, which cascaded off ruffled shoulders, leaving my arms bare. The skirt panel was made of the finest Belgian lace trimmed by red ostrich plumes. It had the merest suggestion of a train, enough to swish gracefully as I walked, offering a teasing hint of what lay under the hem. The dress was a genuine Worth—by far the best thing I still owned. It had been given to me by Lord Alveron in London in 1893, in a suite at the original Savoy, shortly before my abrupt departure from England. The dress had been reworked many times: rips and stains patched, the train diminished a piece at a time to cut away the marks of wear, the bustle shrunken and then rebuilt attempting to keep pace with the ruthless dictates of fashion.
The string of pearls that had accompanied the dress— passed down to Lord Alveron from his great-grandmother, who, whispers said, had been a mistress of some minor European king—had been sold long ago in order to obtain
Angus a place in a good boys’ school. Instead of the pearls, I always wore a thin gold chain with an inexpensive glass bauble nestling in the depths of my abundant cleavage. I had spent long hours searching the pawnshops of Toronto for a piece so cheap that looked so good. With this dress I always wore my hair pinned into a loose chignon into which was tucked a single red ostrich feather.
I’d discarded the sling. For although it had the men fussing over me even more than usual, it was a darned nuisance, and my wrist felt so much better. If Mrs. Mann were to sell that poultice, she could put the town’s doctors out of business.
The musicians were gathered by the door, getting ready to do their nightly routine, and down the street we could hear the noise from another dance hall that had sent their caller out early, when Irene stumbled in, looking not at all her usual cheerful self. Ray had disappeared into the gambling hall, attracted by the sound of a sore loser screaming that he’d been taken.
I hurried towards Irene. She walked awkwardly, as if protecting bruised ribs or tender muscles. “For goodness’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” I grabbed her by the arm. She gasped, and her face crunched in pain.
“Excuse us, gentlemen, please,” I raised my voice to the crowd of admirers that had instantly gathered around Irene. “Lady Irenee needs to prepare for her performance. Let us pass, please.”
I pulled Irene towards the stairs. She pulled back. “Come with me,” I whispered. “You’re hurt. Can’t let them see that. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. Let go of
me. Norm! Nice to see you,” she called to one of her admirers. “Let’s have a dance after the show, and you can tell me all about Bonanza Creek.”
“Are you insane?” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Come upstairs and let me have a look at you.”
She pushed me aside. Her shawl fell open to reveal the top of her breasts—milky white skin and a cluster of purple and blue bruises.
Chapter Fifteen
I stepped back in shock, and Irene took the opportunity to scurry away, her hand protecting her side.
The orchestra went to the street for their eight o’clock call. Ray came out of the gambling hall, a warning arm tossed not-very-casually around a young dandy’s slight shoulders. Ray released the boy and pushed him away with a growled threat that had him heading for the door. Ray smiled at Irene and reached out to touch her arm. I pushed through the crowd to reach them, sensing trouble.
A glass shattered on the floor, and a young miner, still coated by the dust of the digs, took a swing at another man. The few dancers who’d lingered in the bar to chat up their prospective customers screamed in delighted terror.
With a longing glance at Irene, Ray headed to break up the fight and she slipped away.
Richard Sterling and a sergeant, short and stocky, came though the doors. At the sight of the police, all the fight drained out of the two men, and they left with no more trouble.
Sterling’s companion crossed over the invisible line into my private space. His nose lay almost flat against his right cheek, and he was missing a couple of teeth. I held out my hand to stop him from coming any closer. He took it. I’ve known ninety-year-old women to have a stronger handshake. “Mrs. MacGillivray. A pleasure to meet you, at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Your son is a…”
“Sergeant Lancaster,” Sterling shouted, “I suggest we follow those fellows and make sure they don’t get up to any more trouble.”
“Who?” “The men who were fighting.” I ignored the constable and smiled at the Sergeant.
“You’ve met my son, Sergeant?”
“A fine boy, a fine boy. He’ll make an excellent…”
“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. MacGillivray, Walker.” Sterling almost shoved Lancaster towards the door.
“How odd,” I said to Ray as we watched them leave.
“Fee, if I had a shillin’ for every odd thing that happened in Dawson in a day…”
I remembered Irene. If Ray saw the state she was in, he’d be on the warpath for sure, no questions asked. Not that I needed to ask many myself. She’d left the Savoy last night with Jack Ireland and arrived at work today much the worse for wear.
“Can I have a break, Mr. Walker?” Murray, the new blond bartender, asked. The other young bartender was busy ferrying bottles of Champagne to the private boxes in the dance hall. Probably time I learned his name.
“No.”
“Please, Mr. Walker. I really need to…you know,” the boy whinged. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes and blushed.
“Five minutes,” Ray snapped, taking the boy’s place behind the bar with a considerable degree of ill grace. Helen came out of the back room with mop and bucket to clear up the broken glass and shooed drinkers out of her way.
I took a good long look around the bar. For once everything was quiet. The drinkers stood in polite groups, speculating as to which of the fellows in their circle would be next to strike it rich. Funny how they all still thought that big money was waiting to be made out on the claims. Such fortune had finished long ago, by Yukon standards. The only people making money any more were the dig owners like Big Alex Macdonald, the business types like Belinda Mulroney and Mr. Mann, and the dance hall owners. Like me. All the poor fellows still streaming into town by raft or steamboat or foot? Nothing left for them but to scratch out work labouring for someone else.
The door swung open, and Graham Donohue walked in, as bold as a fat tick feasting on the back of a short-haired dog. He puffed on a freshly lit cigar, looked around the room, saw me watching, waved cheerfully, and stood apart from the crowd, confident that I would join him.
I did. “Thought you were in jail, Graham.”
“Fortunately, my reputation in this town preceded me, and they released me on my own good name.”
I snorted.
“That’s a most unladylike sound, Fiona. You should take care to control it.”
“Graham…”
“I saw something interesting from my cell this morning,” he said. “I’ve heard that there’s an old sergeant who’s set up a boxing ring behind the jail. Let me order a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Graham, I have absolutely no interest in the comings and goings at the Fort Herchmer jail.”
“Fiona…”
“Don’t Fiona me. If you cause one single scrap of trouble, I’ll have you outside in the mud in seconds flat. I’ve had a week of nothing but men strutting around like peacocks with their best tail feather missing, fights and brawls, injured dancers.”
He smiled softly. “You’re protecting your arm. Have you been to see the doctor about it?”
“I’ll go when I have the time. Which will probably be sometime late January. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“One drink, my fair lady. And I’ll tell you the story of my night in the foul dungeons of Fort Herchmer.”
“Graham,” I said, “I have a job to do.”
“Very well. We’ll talk later.” Graham left me, presumably to entertain all and sundry with the tragic story of his incarceration. They’d be invading the fort ready to rescue French counts locked into iron masks in the ancient cellars by the time Graham had finished.
I’d begun to hope that the night would be relatively uneventful, when Jack Ireland strolled into the dancehall.
He surveyed the room, his gaze smooth, cool, arrogant. His shirt was white, his heavy gold pocket watch ostentatious, a diamond stickpin in his paisley silk cravat.
Irene’s dance finished and, rather than taking her partner to buy a drink, as was part of her job, she pushed him away. Sam stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the private boxes, clutching a fistful of empty champagne bottles. Ray forgot that he was about to evict someone and loosened his grip on the man enough that the reprobate ducked back into the press of patrons. Helen Saunderson stood in the shadows wringing her rough hands on a tattered dishrag and watching Ireland.
He walked toward me, exchanging greetings with men as he passed. “Front page coverage in the San Francisco Standard this week, Mrs. MacGillivray. Collins, come over here!” He waved an arm. “You’ll be a hero, like I promised you.”
Sam scuttled out of the room. He touched Helen’s arm as he passed and drew her away.
“What did I say? All I want to do is make those two famous, and they act like I’ve poisoned their tea.”
“I think, Mr. Ireland, that they’re entitled to their privacy. We’re a strange bunch up here in the Yukon. If a man or woman wants to be left alone, we believe one should respect that.”
He genuinely looked confused. “Privacy? You can’t eat privacy. Soon as my story runs, people will be pouring money into the Standard offices. To buy Mrs. Saunderson and her children out of bondage.”
“If you…”
He held up a hand.
“Now hear me out, Fiona.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Fiona. Those nice people in San Francisco don’t know or care that this isn’t some cheap whorehouse you’re running here. They want to help an unfortunate family out of their troubles. And if it makes people feel good to help, I’m not going to criticize them.”
“Oh, stop your nonsense,” I said. “A lie is a lie.” Ireland had lost interest in the debate and turned away.
Irene watched him from the far side of the room, and he studied her lazily. “Whatever you say, Fiona.” He cocked his index finger, and Irene brushed aside the man holding his ticket up to her and walked towards us. You could have shattered her smile with an
ice pick.
“Mr. Ireland, good evening.”
“Irene, my dear. Can I have the honour of this dance?”
She nodded, and they swept into the music. Irene moved with as much enthusiasm as the wooden planks beneath her feet, but my girls know they can reject the offers of any man who they fear might mean them harm. I blended back into the crowd, encouraging men to dance.
Irene danced almost every dance with Ireland. They made a nice looking couple, although I didn’t care for the way he tossed her about the floor as if she were his own private property, nor for the flashes of pain that crossed her face.
I planted myself in the dance hall to keep an eye on them, although I normally spent the night passing between the hall, the saloon and the gambling rooms, the latter being where the most serious fights were likely to start. Graham Donohue stayed in the bar, and Ray Walker came in now and again, scowling.
“Everything all right here, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Richard Sterling stood beside me, all looming bulk, crisp red tunic, neat brown pants, high, shiny boots and broad-brimmed hat. I took a step back.
“Sorry,” he said, colouring slightly.
“Everything’s perfectly fine, Constable. Thank you.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be on my rounds, if you need me.”
I watched the dancing for a while longer. Irene didn’t smile. Her countenance was dark and troubled, but she still danced with Ireland. Maybe I’d been wrong and she’d fallen down the stairs at her rooming house. It had been known to happen, just not as often as stiff-minded matrons and pompous priests liked to believe.
It was Saturday, so we didn’t have much time left until midnight closing. I was looking forward to going home and crawling into my narrow bed for the only full night’s sleep I enjoyed all week. Hopefully Mrs. Mann would have left some of that magical poultice out.
