By the Skin of His Teeth

by Ann Walsh

  "Mr. Tremblay is threatening them? He can't do that."

  Peter stared at me strangely. "Who tells the Frenchman what he can do or cannot do? The chief constable does not. The judge does not. Mr. Tremblay is not even in jail. He walks the streets and does what he wishes."

  "You should report him to the chief constable, Peter."

  "Would the chief constable believe? Only Chinese hear the Frenchman say those things. White men think Chinese people lie."

  "But—"

  "Some Chinese do not want to wait for the trial. They want to take law into their own hands. They say one life calls for another life."

  It took me a moment to realize what he meant. "Those men in Sing Kee's store want to kill Mr. Tremblay?"

  "Yes, but they will not. They promise Sing Kee they will hurt no one. My uncle spoke wisely to them. He say it would be bad for all Chinese if they kill a white man. He say to wait for the court to decide."

  "And they agreed?"

  "Yes. For now. But they are very angry at the Frenchman."

  I thought for a moment. "They have a right to be angry, Peter, but not a right to kill. Maybe I can speak to Mr. Tremblay and ask him to stay away from Chinatown until the trial is over."

  What had I just said? My mouth had gone dry when the words pushed their way out. "I will talk to him," I said again, swallowing hard as I spoke, as if I wanted to take the words back.

  "No, sir...Ted. Thank you, but you must not do that. Perhaps you will be witness at the trial. We need you. You respect Chinese people. You will say truly what you saw, and the judge and the jury will believe you. Besides, the Frenchman and his friends would not listen to you."

  No, they wouldn't, I thought, remembering how Henri Tremblay had laughed when he called me "the boy who is almost docteur."

  "But we must do something. I'll tell Chief Constable Lindsay. He'll believe me." I stood, bumping against the worktable and knocking over a block of wood. It thumped loudly when it hit the floor, and Peter and I jumped.

  "Excuse me, sir...Ted, but if you go to the law, it will not help. It will make things worse. Mr. Tremblay and Chief Constable Lindsay are friends. They play cards, drink together. The chief constable will not believe you, same as he will not believe us."

  "The chief constable is a good man—" I began.

  "Perhaps so, but he is white and we are Chinese. Please, Ted, do nothing for now. If I hear that trouble is coming, I will tell you. I promise. But you must promise me that you will talk to no one."

  I considered his request, then said, "Very well...I promise. We'll hope nothing bad happens."

  "Perhaps Henri Tremblay will go back to Mosquito Creek," Peter said. "If he will stay there until the trial, then we will not have trouble."

  "Let's hope he stays away then," I said.

  Seven

  January gave way to February, then to March. The snow deepened and icicles clustered along the eaves. Spring showed no signs of making an early appearance. The days were getting longer now, but slowly. I still walked to Barkerville each morning well before sunrise, returning home in thick dark.

  My father came back to work, feeling refreshed and rested, which surprised me, for Ma had found much for him to do at home. She had new cupboards in her kitchen, bigger shelves in the pantry and a newly resanded and repainted floor in the parlour as a result of Pa's "holiday."

  Business picked up, and suddenly all three of us were working hard. The sounds of hammering and sawing and the smells of glue and varnish filled the carpentry shop once again.

  Peter's reading lessons became fewer and fewer, but it didn't matter. I had discovered that he had a good knowledge of the English alphabet and could read simple sentences even before we began our lesson. He was also an amazingly quick learner. During the slow winter weeks when there wasn't much to do, we read together from some of the books Ma had used to teach me, and I made lists of words for him to learn to spell. Before long Peter was taking those books, and others I borrowed from the library, home with him at night. He had become a voracious reader. I didn't think he would ever become good at spelling, though. The English language still puzzled him a lot.

  "Why must there be so many words that sound the same but are spelled differently and mean different things?" he asked. "It is hard to learn. Two is a number, to is ‘I go to work now,' and too means ‘much of something'—sometimes. Now you tell me too also means also. And hole is much different from whole, but they sound the same when you say them. Why?"

  "Aye," Pa said. "It's confusing, lad."

  "See? You say aye meaning yes, but it sounds the same as I meaning me. Why must English be so difficult?"

  Neither Pa nor I could answer that question. It was something I had often wondered myself.

  Several times now, on Jenny's day off, I had been invited to the Fraser home for dinner. Afterward, Jenny and I sat in the parlour and talked. I was sorry it was so cold that we couldn't go outside and walk together.

  Mrs. Fraser and her husband seemed glad to see me when I visited. So were the twins. So, I think, was Jenny.

  Pa had begun to tease me about my "Scottish lassie," and even Ma would frequently ask about her. "As soon as the weather's better, you must bring her for Sunday dinner," she said. "It's a long walk to our home in this cold, but once spring comes I expect to meet this young lady of yours."

  "She is not my ‘young lady,'" I said. "We're just friends." "Aye," Pa said, winking at Ma.

  "Indeed," Ma said, winking back.

  "I shall go outside to chop firewood," I said, making a dignified retreat and hoping the back of my neck wasn't as bright red as I knew my face was.

  In March the pussy willows came out. I picked some and brought them to Jenny. She took them graciously but seemed puzzled. "These are sticks," she said.

  "No, look more closely. See the buds? They're soft, like a cat's fur."

  "Oh, they're tiny pussy willows. Thank you."

  She still looked mystified. How could I explain to her that those soft buds meant spring was coming? That they were the first sign that other plants would bloom, that the creek would thaw, the snowbanks melt, that winter would end, no matter how long and hard it had been?

  My mother always gathered an armful of pussy willows, placing them in vases around the house. "These are nature's promise to those of us who live in this fearful climate," she would say. "The promise that summer won't forget us."

  Jenny dipped her head to sniff the branches, then looked up and smiled. "I smell spring. It's been such a long winter— and it's nae over yet—but when I smell these, I can smell spring. Thank you." She stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek.

  "Me, too, me, too!" clamoured the Fraser twins.

  "Oh, you want a kiss, too?" Jenny teased.

  "No. Kittens. Little kittens."

  She handed them each a willow branch. "Poor dears. You want to be outdoors as much as I do. Don't worry. Soon we can go out every day and you can pick your own sticks—or flowers." Then she gasped. "There will be flowers, won't there, Ted? Real ones? Flowers do grow in this dreich country?"

  "Most definitely," I said. "The Cariboo doesn't always look so drab. There are many wildflowers here—golden dandelions, red paintbrush, tiny blue violets, orange tiger lilies, pink lady slippers, purple fireweed, soft white Saskatoon blossoms. Soon you'll have all the flowers you want, Jenny."

  "It will never be soon enough. I'm most fearfully tired of winter."

  We were all tired of winter, but by April the snow on Barkerville's main street was replaced by deep mud. It froze solid nearly every night, but by mid-afternoon it was thick and gooey, treacherous to foot passengers and horses alike. Between the buildings, however, the heaps of snow that had slid from the steep roofs all winter still reached higher than my head.

  People began returning to the gold fields; the stagecoach was full almost every time it pulled up at Barnard's Express office. Moses's barbershop reopened, as did two of the general stores. Restaurants ordered new s
upplies, miners arrived, stocked up with provisions, and headed out to their claims. Winter's back was broken, and Barkerville seemed to come alive again. More and more people braved the muddy streets to venture outside during the day.

  By May we no longer had much frost at night. The piles of snow between the houses were almost gone, and the trees were leafing into a soft green. The mud grew deeper, especially after rain, but when the mud dried it became as hard as rock. Clumps of dried mud clung everywhere—to boots, to the hems of ladies' skirts, to the bottoms of men's trousers. But the sun shone, the days lengthened, and the robins returned. Spring had finally come.

  Jenny and the twins now spent a great deal of time out of the house. "The bairns are so speeritie," she said one day, sighing. "It is as much as I can do to keep them from running off."

  "Spirit tea? Is that something to drink, or is it another of your Scottish words?"

  She laughed. "Nae to drink, you glaikit boy. It means having much energy."

  "Oh, I understand. Yes, the twins are energetic."

  "Indeed they are. Sometimes they have so much energy that I become tired. But if they run and play outdoors in the fresh air, then they go to bed early and sleep most soundly. So we spend much time outside these days, though I'm afraid I'll lose one of them. They run quickly, and they like to hide."

  After thinking about Jenny and her two speeritie charges, I fashioned a sort of double "leash" for Andrew and Robert-two leather straps that attached around their waists and then to a belt encircling Jenny's waist. My invention was a wonderful success. Jenny did complain that sometimes it seemed as if the boys, if they decided to head in opposite directions, would pull her apart. But she was grateful she could now safely take her charges for walks, without fear of them escaping. The sounds of their running feet, the fast thump of four small boots, followed by the lighter patter of Jenny's feet as she followed—or was dragged—became a familiar sound along the boardwalks. The three of them often moved so quickly that passersby dodged out of their way, ducking into the shelter of doorways.

  Although Bridget told me disapprovingly that "tearing about town like a wild animal" wasn't ladylike behaviour and she wished her cousin wouldn't do it, most of the townsfolk enjoyed seeing Jenny and the twins. There were only a few children in Barkerville; most of the miners had left their own families behind when they came to search for gold. So whenever the three young people made their frequent appearances on the streets, they brought smiles to many faces.

  At Bridget's urging, though, I suggested to Jenny that perhaps she should try to slow down, to walk rather than run when she and the twins were in public. But she laughed. "I will nae be bothered by what a bunch of nosy glib gabbits say," she said. "If some women have naught better to do but gossip, well, let them. I'm doing nothing wrong."

  She didn't have to explain to me what a glib gabbit was. I had met a few of them myself, people who would rather gossip about others than mind their own business.

  I went to the Fraser home for dinner regularly now, and afterward Jenny and I strolled together, breathing deeply of the soft air, slapping at the mosquitoes and black flies that, like us, were enjoying the spring weather. Jenny visited the carpentry shop often, sometimes bringing with her fresh biscuits or a slice of cake. Pa was very fond of the little boys and kept a box of wooden scraps for them in a corner of the shop. The children called these their "blocks" and stacked the bits of wood into towers, or built roads and walls with them, while Jenny shared a cup of tea—and, of course, conversation—with us.

  "She's a fine lass," my father said, "but she does blether on."

  "She does not blether, and besides, I like the sound of her voice," I said defensively. "It's like a song."

  "Aye, it's musical, granted. But she does use it a great deal."

  Much as I cared for Jenny, I had to admit Pa was right.

  But I was pleased and surprised to hear Jenny's voice wishing me a happy birthday near the end of May. The day before I had been invited to the twins' third birthday celebration, a noisy party with much laughter, many games, and a great deal of sweet things to eat. Jenny had sung to them, then the twins had sung two songs for all of us to enjoy—or try to, for the boys didn't have Jenny's soft, musical voice—then there had been more games and more to eat.

  I hadn't told Jenny that my birthday followed the twins', but perhaps Mrs. Fraser had. The next morning Jenny appeared at the carpentry shop, smiling and carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of plaid ribbon.

  "Many happy returns, Ted," she said. Once again she stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek. My father coughed nosily behind his workbench, and I thought I heard Peter giggle. Jenny and I blushed. At least I knew she did, because I could see her face redden, and I felt sure that I, too, had turned scarlet.

  "Here, this is for you," she said, thrusting the small parcel into my hands. "I made them myself." Then she turned to Pa and Peter and called, "Good day," before scurrying out.

  "So, a kiss for your seventeenth birthday, son? That's a good omen. Though your Scottish lassie is a gallus young lady. Usually it's a man who first kisses his sweetheart, not the other way around."

  What means gallus please?" Peter asked.

  "It means impertinent, forward—cheeky would be a common word for it," Pa said.

  "Jenny is not cheeky, nor is she my sweetheart," I said. "We are merely friends. Good friends."

  "Aye, so you say," said my father. "So you keep on saying."

  Jenny's present was a dozen thick shortbreads. They were still warm, and I popped one into my mouth. My father glared at me until I offered him one, too.

  "Well, your Jenny may be gallus," he admitted, "but this is as good as the shortbread your mother makes. Though it wouldn't be wise to tell her so." He reached for a second piece.

  Peter went home for lunch, and when he returned, his face was serious. "This is my last day with you and your father, Ted. I can no longer work here."

  "Why?" I asked. "Has something happened?"

  Pa was bent over an unfinished tabletop as he stroked a sanding block across it. He seemed intent on his work. Peter moved closer to me, and when he spoke, his voice was low.

  "No, there has been no trouble, not yet. But the Frenchman is here. He went to Mosquito Creek again, but now he has come back. He talks to the Chinese who saw Ah Mow die. All the witnesses."

  "What's Henri Tremblay saying to them?"

  "I do not know, but they are afraid. More afraid than before."

  "Why?"

  "I do not know," he repeated. "They say only that Mr. Tremblay and his friends frighten them. One witness says he will leave town and not speak at the trial."

  "But he'll have to testify if he's asked. It's the law."

  "If he cannot be found, then he cannot speak, can he? He will not be found, I am sure of that."

  "But what has this to do with leaving us? We need your help, Peter. Pa and I have a great deal of work to be completed, and soon we'll begin on outside jobs. Already we have requests for new outbuildings. We need you here."

  "I am needed more in Chinatown," Peter said.

  "To do what?"

  He looked over at Pa. The regular swish of the sandpaper across the tabletop hadn't stopped. My father wasn't listening to us.

  "Some Chinese men think the Frenchman and his friends will make more trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "That also I do not know, Ted. But I find out."

  "How can you find out what Henri Tremblay and his friends are planning?"

  "I am to be a spy," he said. "That is the right word, yes? One who listens to secrets?"

  "A spy?"

  "Yes. My English is good. I understand what the white men talk about. Mr. Tremblay does not speak French much. His friends do not understand that language, so he talks in English. I am to work in the restaurant where they often eat and play cards. I will work there and listen to what they say to each other. I will hear what they plan."
>
  "It could be dangerous, Peter. Be careful."

  "I will, sir...Ted."

  "The judge will be here any day. Soon there will be a trial and this ugliness will be over. Then you can come back to us."

  "Yes. I look forward to that. Please, you will tell your father why I go?"

  "Yes. I'll explain. Good luck to you."

  "Thank you." Peter solemnly shook my hand, bowed to my father, and strode out of the shop.

  But I was wrong. The trial didn't happen soon. By the end of May, there was still no word about when a Supreme Court judge would arrive in the Cariboo. It had been a long time since the Assizes had been held in the gold fields, many months since a judge had been sent to conduct trials here. Henri Tremblay wasn't the only one waiting for justice.

  Early in June there was an editorial in the Cariboo Sentinel:

  When do the judges of the Supreme Court intend to honour Cariboo with their presence? Last year the judge arrived later and left much earlier than usual; this year it was hoped things would be altered. This is shameful neglect, even injustice. Much inconvenience is suffered by prisoners and others, but no heed has been paid and now we are in June and have still no knowledge of when the court will sit. There are three prisoners in jail awaiting trial. True, they are only Heathen Chinese and as long as they are in jail they are out of mischief. But there are also two men out on bail awaiting the pleasure of their Highnesses the Judges of the Supreme Court whose delicate constitutions might be injured by a trip to Cariboo before July.

  I read the editorial aloud to my father. "Why must the paper always talk about the Chinese people as ‘heathens'?" I asked. "The Chinese were a civilized society hundreds of years ago while the British were still barbarians with blue paint on their faces. It's an impolite term."

  "Most people truly believe the Chinese are heathens, son. They don't go to church."

  "Not to our churches. But they worship in their own way at the Tong buildings."

  "Aye, but they don't worship our God, which means in the eyes of good Christians they are heathens. Also, Ted, I think some people don't believe that the Chinese are ‘real people,' that they're equal to us...to white people."