by Ann Walsh
“Ah, you are wrong on both counts. It is a rare physician who can heal himself, and the world of nightmares belongs as much to adults as to those much younger.” He sighed again. “The birth of the twins, an event which sharpened your tongue, will prompt my dreams. I know that an uneasy sleep awaits me tonight.”
I looked at him, astonished. “You do have nightmares? As I do, or as I used to? But I dreamed of a murderer and a hanging; how can those tiny babies cause nightmares?”
The doctor stared at the table for a long time, not answering. In the two months I had worked for him, I had never known him to be silent for so long. I was worried for him and, in spite of his reassurances, not at all sure that he wasn’t angry at me.
He raised his head and I could see that there were lines on his face which had not been there earlier in the day. He seemed to have aged ten years. There were deep creases bracketing his mouth, dark circles under his eyes, and two furrows between his eyebrows. He did not look angry; he looked sick and old.
“J.B., you are not well. Come back to the surgery. You need rest and perhaps a tonic…”
He tried to smile at me. “Doctor Ted. Only a few short weeks of apprenticeship, and already you prescribe treatment. However, in this case your advice is sound and I shall follow it. If I can prevail upon you to accompany me? I know it grows late and your mother will expect you home shortly, but I confess I feel a great need for the company of a friend.”
At the surgery he sat down in the easy chair and I busied myself lighting a fire. “A cup of tea would do you good,” I said. “Or shall I brew some coffee?”
J.B. shook his head, but did not answer. I lit the lamps, turning up the wicks to their brightest, then set a kettle of water on the stove anyway, in case he should change his mind and ask for a hot drink. Then I pulled up one of the other chairs and sat facing him.
Between us the stove cracked and hissed as some pitch burst into flame, and the kettle began to sing softly to itself as it neared the boil. J.B. sat with his head bowed, his tall body almost doubled over on itself, one hand held to his forehead so his eyes were shaded. Then, his voice muffled and so soft I had to strain to hear his words, he began to tell me his story.
“Sophia Cameron was her name,” he said. “They called her husband ‘Cariboo’. Cariboo Cameron.”
“I know of him. Camerontown is named for him,” I said, but J.B. seemed not to hear me.
“I was Mrs. Cameron’s doctor,” he said, “It was I who delivered her child, born here in the goldfields only months after she and her husband arrived. It was I who brought that child into the world, and it was I who stood by its grave after Cariboo and I buried it.”
“The baby died?” I asked.
“It was the second child Sophia had lost,” J.B. went on. “The first died on the long journey here, died before she ever set foot in Barkerville, a place she soon came to despise.”
“She was young. Before her marriage she had lived a sheltered life with her family. Life in the goldfields was not sheltered, nor refined, and she hated living here. Cariboo had invested in a gold claim, but although he and his partners toiled for long hours, working themselves to the point of exhaustion, the claim produced barely enough to buy the food they needed.
“Sophia was lonely. She had no relatives here, and she was not used to the difficulties of life in the goldfields: the primitive cabin, the bitter cold of winter, the lack of other women of her class to befriend. She yearned desperately to go back to her home in Ontario. She often spoke of her life there, of the small farm her father owned, and of the brilliant colours of the trees in autumn.
“I was her doctor, and I became her friend. Her only friend. Yet after the child died, it seemed that Sophia no longer wanted my friendship. Perhaps she blamed me for the baby’s death. Perhaps she mourned, both for it and for the one who died before, mourned so greatly that she had no space left in her heart for friends. As she turned from me, I, not realizing her despair, abandoned her. I did not realize how much she suffered. I thought only that I had displeased her.
“So I left her alone, refusing even to tend to her in my professional capacity. There were other doctors in the goldfields, I thought. Let one of them deal with Sophia’s complaints and tears and unfriendly behaviour. I had had enough of her coldness.
“Cariboo Cameron sought me out, told me of his wife’s pitiful condition and of her desperate yearning to return to the home of her youth. She would not see another physician, he said, although she grew more despondent every day. He urged me to come to her, but I refused, dismissing his concerns.
“I told him that a woman’s moods were not like a man’s. ‘She mourns for her dead children,’ I said. ‘It is natural and it will pass. It is nothing.’
“I did, however, give Cariboo laudanum to help his wife sleep, and urged him to have her drink spruce tea, a remedy I learned about from the Shuswap people who live near Soda Creek. Spruce tea, they told me, will lift the spirits as well as improve health. Cariboo Cameron offered his wife laudanum and many pots of spruce tea, but Sophia would not take them. I sent her tonics; she refused those as well.
“Yet of all the medicines I prescribed for Sophia Cameron, I did not offer her the most potent medicine of all—friendship.
“On October 22, 1862, she died. It was thirty degrees below zero, too cold for October, too cold even for Barkerville where winter comes so early. The wind howled and the snow ran before it, forming into drifts which would not melt until May. It was a dreadful day to die.
“The ground was frozen too deeply for a grave to be dug, so once a coffin was ready, her husband laid her to rest under the floorboards of an abandoned miner’s cabin.
“It was a small group who gathered to bid Sophia goodbye. Although thousands lived on Williams Creek in the summer, there were very few who stayed here through that harsh winter. Not even a hundred people came to pray for Sophia at her funeral.”
The fire had burned down and needed replenishing, but I didn’t feel as if I should move. J.B. sat motionless, his head bowed. My feet were cold, I should add more wood to the fire and trim the lamps, I thought. One of the wicks was smoking and the lamp’s chimney was turning black.
I didn’t move until J.B. did. Finally he raised his head and looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.
“Stoke the fire, Ted, and then go home. I have talked at you for too long; it is late. Your mother will be worried.”
I threw more logs into the stove, tended to the lamps, then picked up my jacket. But before I left there was something I had to ask, something I needed to know.
“J.B.? What do you see in your dreams? What frightens you?”
“I frighten myself,” he said. “For in my dreams I see Sophia, her dead baby in her arms, her other child grasping her skirt. She holds out a hand to me, pleading, asking for my help, for my friendship. Night after night I see her reaching for my hand, and night after night I turn my back on her.
“Sophia Cameron is not the spectre which haunts me, Ted. I am my own nightmare; I am my own terror. From that there is no escape.”
Seven
There was no moon and it was full dark by the time I left the doctor. As I walked through the streets of Barkerville the lamps from within the houses cast enough light so that travel was easy, but by the time I reached the end of town and began to climb the long hill which led to Richfield and my home, there was not a glimmer of light anywhere. I think that it was only because I had made this trip so often, because I knew the way so well, that I did not stumble and fall or wander off the path and plunge down the steep banks of Williams Creek. I walked slowly, my feet cautious on the road, but I wished to run, to ignore the ruts and grooves under my feet which might trip me, and run as fast as I could until I reached home.
It was darker than I had ever known a night to be. Although I was a doctor’s assistant, a godfather to a baby, and almost fourteen, I was frightened. Perhaps it was J.B.’s talk of death and coffins which
had put the fear back into me, but I felt terror as I had only known it in my dreams, a fear which brings with it a pounding heart and a cold clammy sweat on the brow. Then, as I neared the spot where I had first seen James Barry, I saw him again.
Not physically, not in the flesh, but in my mind. In the dark I felt James Barry’s presence. I knew that when I walked in front of that tree, just ahead around the bend in the road, I would hear his laughter once more.
There was a noise, a rustle in the bushes, the sound of something moving on the edge of the trail. I stood still and listened, but I heard nothing more. I took a deep breath and shouted, “Be gone. Whoever… I mean, whatever you are, leave me alone.” Then someone spoke.
“Ted, is that you?”
I could not move. I could not breathe. My heart leapt in my chest as if it, too, wished to escape.
“Ted, if that is you, answer me. Here, I have a lantern, but it has gone out. I’ll light it again.”
There was the scratch of a match, then a flash of light which steadied into a soft glow. A man’s figure moved slowly into view, the lamp casting enough light so I could recognize his face.
“Pa!”
“Is that you, Ted? Your mother was worried for you, so she sent me out to search.”
I found that I could breathe once more, so filled my lungs with air and felt my heart begin to slow. I took a step towards my father, then another one, then almost ran until I stood beside him.
“You are very late, son. Were there problems? I understand that you went to attend Mrs. Fraser and her twins. But I left the carpentry shop early tonight, and heard no more of your doings.”
“It was not Mrs. Fraser who delayed me tonight. J.B. asked me to stay with him. He felt a need to talk, to tell me of…” I thought quickly. Perhaps I should not tell my father what J.B. had told me. “He needed to discuss some things with me,” I finished.
“I hope the doctor’s trouble is not back with him,” said my father. “Did he speak to you of Mrs. Cameron?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “I didn’t know that you knew about her.”
“Everyone knows the story, and Doctor Wilkinson’s role in it,” he said. “However, we never spoke of it in front of children, so you would not have heard the tale. But it is well known that the doctor grieved deeply when Mrs. Cameron died, that he blamed himself. I had hoped that he had recovered, that he was not …” He stopped speaking, and we walked in silence for a while. Somewhere an owl called, a lonesome sound. I moved closer to my father’s side.
“That he was not what?” I asked at last. “I don’t understand, Pa. J.B. has nightmares, is that what you mean?”
“Aye, nightmares, that does not surprise me. But there is more, son. Doctor Wilkinson will tell you someday, I have no doubt.”
Ahead of us a splash of light from the lamp my mother had placed in the front window spilled out across the road, a beacon in the dark welcoming me home. I wanted to run, to push open the door to my house and close it tightly behind me, leaving the darkness and the ghosts shut outside. I quickened my steps, hurrying, and realized that I was hungry. Perhaps Ma would have saved me some biscuits from dinner. Maybe there would be warm soup or even stew. I was hungry, but hungry as much for the warmth and safety of my own home as for food.
But just before I reached the front door, I stopped. Something Pa had said was disturbing me. Something about Doctor Wilkinson.
“Pa,” I asked. “What is wrong with J.B.? What did you mean about his trouble starting again?”
My father sighed, and bent down to blow out the lantern he carried. “You will find out soon enough if his trouble returns. But let us all hope that it never will.”
I slept late the next morning, but awoke feeling tired. I hadn’t dreamed, at least not that I remembered, but my eyes were heavy and I found it difficult to get out of bed. J.B. had told me not to come to work. “I have kept you away from home for a long time tonight, listening to me talk,” he said. “Stay home for a day. Help your ma. I will manage without your assistance.”
“I shall welcome some leisure tomorrow,” I said. “It is my birthday.”
“Ah, is it? I hadn’t realized that. Please accept my best wishes and enjoy yourself.”
My parents had not been pleased last night when I told them of my plans.
“You should go to work anyway, Ted,” said my father. “It may be that the doctor needs you.”
“He said he would not. Besides, tomorrow is my birthday.” “I am well aware of that, and I wish you many happy returns, as does your mother. However, you should go to work.”
I was disappointed. “But J.B. said—”
“Doctor Wilkinson says many foolish things, son. I’m sure he did not mean it. I know you will be needed.”
“I agree,” said my mother firmly.
Although I had slept several extra hours I was still tired this morning, and also disappointed. I didn’t want to make the trip to town. It was my birthday; surely I deserved a holiday. I would stay home, no matter what my parents said. But when I went for my breakfast, Ma had other plans.
“I have supplies which need to be purchased,” she said. “You can fetch them for me and, while you are in town, check with Doctor Wilkinson to see if he needs you.”
“I don’t wish to check with him,” I said.
“Theodore…” said Ma, her voice sharp.
“I will go, if you insist,” I said. “However, I don’t understand why you and Pa are so eager for me to return to work when J.B. has said that—”
“Regardless of what the doctor told you, it would be a courtesy, Theodore. Besides, I need you to fetch my supplies; sugar and flour, things which are too heavy for me to carry. I will hear no more about it. Spend the morning at home if you wish, however after your noon meal I want you to go. But please tell the doctor that I want you home early.”
In the afternoon, I went to town. I knew that it was useless to argue with Ma when she had that look on her face. It would be less trouble just to do as she wished.
I took my time, making the journey last as long as possible. Only when I passed the spot on the road where my father had found me last night, and when I walked by the Peace House in the Chinese section of Barkerville, did I push myself to move quickly. It didn’t seem fair. I had been given a day of freedom, and not only were my parents refusing to allow me to enjoy it, but they neglected to take any notice at all of my birthday.
I stopped by Moses’s shop after I had done Ma’s shopping. Since J.B. wasn’t expecting me today, he would not notice if I were late arriving. I would visit with Moses and tell him that I was a godfather. Maybe Moses would know what a godfather was supposed to do. Did I need to give baby Robert a gift? Was I responsible for making sure that the child had sufficient clothing and food and toys?
I realized that I had not told my parents of my new status; Ma would know what a godparent’s role was, but she had been in a peculiar mood this morning.
The barbershop was closed, the blinds drawn and a sign on the door said that Mr. W.D. Moses would not be available to customers for the rest of the day. It was only three o’clock. Why had Moses closed so early?
I knocked on the door and called for him, just in case he were in the back room. No one answered.
J.B.’s surgery was closed, too. His sign said, “Patients with persistent and pertinent problems please present yourselves at a later period.” The notice which J.B. usually placed on his door when he was unavailable simply said “Returning as soon as possible.” I had never seen this sign before.
I went to Pa’s shop. It was locked, the door bolted and the shades securely drawn. On the door was tacked a sign which said, “Closed this afternoon.”
But that couldn’t be! I had seen Pa leave for work this morning, and his shop had been open just now when I passed it on my way to do Ma’s shopping. What had happened?
Perhaps he was at the restaurant, I thought, and headed for Wake Up Jake’s. J.B. wasn’t there, nor was Mo
ses or my father. I hadn’t really expected to see Pa there. He always said that it was foolish to spend good money on a meal when he could bring his food with him from home. However, I had been positive I would find the doctor at his usual table. But when I inquired about J.B.’s whereabouts, the proprietor just smiled and said he had no idea, as he hadn’t seen Doctor Wilkinson since noon.
“And Mr. Moses?” I asked. “Have you seen him today? He hasn’t taken ill, has he?”
“Not at all, Master Ted. He had some engagement this afternoon, but he is in perfect health, I assure you.”
I picked up Ma’s parcels and went home. No one was obliged to keep me informed of their activities, but I felt neglected. Since they had all seemingly found better things to do than work this afternoon, I would go home. Alone.
The sacks of sugar and flour which Ma had insisted I purchase were heavy, and I made the trip back up the hill almost as slowly as I had travelled on my trip to town. My arms ached from carrying the parcels, my feet felt heavy and moved reluctantly. I walked up the short path to our front door feeling out of sorts and irritable and, I suppose, slightly sorry for myself. After all, it was my birthday, and no one seemed to care.
I had been away from home for several hours, yet I had accomplished nothing except Ma’s shopping. A waste of time, I thought. I could have stayed home, enjoyed my day with nothing to do.
One of J.B.’s words popped into my mind. Disgruntled. That was exactly how I felt—in bad humour, irritable and discontent.
I was definitely disgruntled as I pushed open the front door and stepped inside. Ma did not come to greet me, but as I took off my boots I heard a fiddle being played, softly at first, then louder and louder. Who was playing? What was that tune?
Then voices joined with the violin notes. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow… and so say all of us.”
“Happy birthday, Theodore! Come into the parlour. There are some friends of yours here to help you celebrate.” Ma had changed from her work clothes into a dress she only wears for special occasions, and she was not wearing her apron. She hugged me. “Come in, son, we’re waiting for you. Did you suspect that everyone had forgotten your birthday?”