Honeyville

  I laughed happily. ‘Never mind history,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t give a fig about the history. But I guess it’ll be quite a show. I’ll come with you. Only afterwards I shall have to return here directly. Do you understand? And of course there may well not be space in the theatre—’

  ‘Oh, I’m convinced there’ll be space!’ she said. ‘And if there isn’t I can ask Mr Rossiter. He’s the manager – and he is quite a friend of my brother Xavier’s. Or he used to be, before Xavier left … They were friends at school, I’m sure of it. In any case, I am certain there will be room for us. Have you been in there? It’s vast, Dora! It’s the grandest theatre in the West. Will you really come? Thank goodness. Thank you, darling. I hate it when we argue. This morning when I left I was so sorry. I was quite certain you would never speak to me again.’

  ‘So was I,’ I said. ‘And I am sorry too. And, by the way, I am coming with you tonight because …’ I stopped, uncertain why, exactly. It was because she was impossible to refuse. ‘Because I am curious,’ I said. ‘Because I should like to hear what the legendary Mother Jones has to say.’

  Inez gurgled with delight. ‘I should think you’ll be out striking with the rest of us by the time she’s finished.’

  I didn’t bother to say it, but Inez would not be striking. If they called for a strike tonight, the company would not be throwing her out of her comfortable bed. And there would still be honeycake for tea.

  She tracked down her brother Xavier’s old friend, Mr Rossiter, who, even in the flurry of urgency surrounding him, appeared flattered beyond sense that pretty, warm Inez should remember him. He dislodged the wives of two Union delegates from Pueblo so that we didn’t have to stand and, thanks to him, and the great charm of Inez and, no doubt, of her mysterious brother Xavier, we ended up with two of the best seats in the house, in the front row of the middle tier. I felt the usual flutter of nostalgia and regret as we settled into them. Theatre halls always did that to me then. In fact they still do. And sitting there, among that angry, unlikely, unperfumed audience, I admit I felt a longing for my old life as strong as any I had felt before.

  The auditorium hummed with barely tethered energy and expectation that night. Inez had vastly underestim- ated the numbers who would turn out to hear the old woman speak. The theatre was packed, not just with Union delegates and miners, but with miners’ wives and miners’ children. The company had peppered the place with their spies and informers, and there were reporters from across America come to witness the event. Every seat in the house was filled, and in every space between them stood another pair of feet. The crowd spilled out beyond the theatre into the lobby beyond, and beyond that, through double doors, thrown open onto the hot and dusty street.

  Mother Jones came onto the stage at last. She’d arrived fresh from a tour of the minefields of Northern Colorado – and, before that, from the picket lines of West Virginia. Along the way she had clearly learned a trick or two in public speaking. Eighty-three years old, tiny, upright, white haired and dressed head-to-toe in black, she instantly cast a spell on us. In fact, before even opening her mouth to speak, she played a small trick to win us over. She unpinned her hat and simply threw it to the crowd. And how the audience roared!

  Within moments of her beginning, my seat was shaking with their whistles and cheers; they grew louder and wilder as time drew on and she whipped the crowd to ever-increasing anger and frenzy. And it was impossible not to be moved. The tales of suffering, the low pay, the violence, the danger; I was familiar with all the stories. Nevertheless, as she spoke, I raged against the company exploiters as never before, and when she bellowed out to the packed room:

  ‘It is Slavery or Strike! And I say Strike, until the last one of you drops into your graves …’

  Inez was on her feet – and so was I. We were shaking our fists in the air and chanting with the workers: Strike! Strike! Strike!

  The people did indeed vote to strike that night. Afterwards there was a moment of absolute silence; as if at last we realized – no, they realized what they had done. The strike was set to begin in one week’s time.

  13

  It was on our way home from the theatre, as we weaved between the crowds, that Inez announced she had persuaded her aunt to allow her to rent herself the cottage in town.

  ‘For you to live in?’ I asked her, astonished. ‘You and Lawrence?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she replied.

  I laughed. ‘Well what else would it be for?’

  But she wasn’t amused. ‘It really surprises me, Dora,’ she said, ‘and so soon after you have heard that incredible little woman, that your mind should descend to such levels. As it happens, I want a place of my own because, as I said to my aunt, I am a grown woman. And the way things are looking, I shall almost certainly never marry.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  ‘And I can’t live at home for ever.’

  ‘Why not? It’s what ladies of your class generally do, isn’t it?’

  ‘In any case,’ she continued. ‘It’s especially infuriating because Xavier is allowed to keep his inheritance, whereas mine is under trust, so I’m forbidden from spending it without my aunt and uncle’s say-so.’

  ‘Unjust,’ I agreed.

  ‘On top of which, I hardly need to point out, there is important work to be done here in Southern Colorado. Especially now. And I am doing it, Dora. And as I said to Aunt Philippa, I need a place where I can work undisturbed.’

  I asked her (it was something I had been wondering for some time) how she accounted for her busy days when her aunt asked her at dinner what she had been doing with herself since breakfast. Inez gave a little skip of pleasure at the reminder of her own, simple duplicity, a gurgle of laughter. Her self-importance evaporated.

  ‘I’ve explained to her,’ Inez said, ‘that I am writing a novel! How about that? And she is such a darling. It’s the last thing she wants me to be doing. She doesn’t even like novels! She wants me to be marrying the likes of Bill Paxton. Except now it’s too late, thank goodness – which funnily enough is just exactly what brought the whole thing to a head.’

  ‘Marrying William Paxton?’ I repeated stupidly.

  She stopped. ‘Don’t tell me you know him?’

  ‘Know Bill Paxton? Why, no,’ I said quickly. ‘Only you never mentioned him before. Is he a suitor of yours?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Inez declared. ‘Though not for want of Aunt Philippa’strying. He’s a widower. He owns a number of gun stores: one in Trinidad, and a few others further north. He’s dull as ditch-water, Dora. But he’s one of the wealthiest gentlemen in Trinidad.’

  ‘Is he?’ I muttered.

  ‘Aunt Philippa’s all tuckered up because last night she learned – what I’ve known for simply ages – that he has become engaged to marry a girl from Denver. Aunt Philippa took it terribly badly.’

  ‘Did she? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why it hit her quite so hard,’ Inez replied. ‘It was as if he suddenly seemed to represent –’ she shrugged – ‘the very last man on earth who was ever likely to marry me. Which is ridiculous. I told Lawrence about her reaction. I thought it might make him laugh, but he went quite peculiar.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you were proposing marriage to him?’

  Inez shook her head. ‘It was nothing like that. No, Lawrence knew him, Dora. He knew William! And I received the distinct impression …’ She stopped. ‘You know, the older I get, the more I realise … Nobody’s ever quite what they seem, don’t you think so?’

  ‘Lawrence knew him? Did he say how?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How very strange … And do you dislike this Mr Paxton?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

  She gave me a funny look. ‘Not especially. I didn’t especially like or dislike him, to be truthful. Even if …’

  ‘Even if what?’

  ‘I’m just saying you never can be sure, in these troubled times, who is really on what side. Pro- Union,
Anti-Union … And it may be that William and I would have agreed over much more than I realized. In any case, he’s found himself another wife at last,’ she added. ‘And in the meantime, Aunt Philippa tells me she’s longing to read my brilliant novel! I shall have to give her something to look at some time! I shall have to write something …’ She glanced at me slyly. ‘Perhaps I could just copy out one of your filthy French books? What do you think?’

  ‘In French?’

  Inez shrugged with utmost merriment. And once again it struck me how easily and lightly she was willing to deceive the people she loved. Could she lie to me like that, I wondered? But why would she ever need to? Could she lie to Lawrence? Without a doubt. ‘French, English, Japanese. Honestly, I don’t suppose Aunt Philippa would notice the difference. She doesn’t read novels.’

  I was meant to be back at Plum Street, ready for work, but she insisted we walk by the new cottage first. Trinidad being a small town, it was only a handful of blocks out of my way and, in any case, I was curious.

  She led me to a wood-frame little ranch bungalow on the corner of Convent and Third Street, about halfway between her aunt’s house and mine; in the heart of the city. It was a pretty little place, painted rusty pink, with a wide porch out front, and gingerbread latticing running along the eves. I had walked past it often – there had been a ‘For Rent’ sign outside for several weeks now. And because of that, it so happened that when I had envisaged my life as a singing instructress, it was of myself living in this very house that I had allowed myself to dream.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, as we drew up beside it. And then, without waiting for my answer: ‘Can you believe it? This is where I am going to live, Dora! Isn’t it perfect? There is a parlour and a kitchen and a pantry, and a bedroom to the side and a little room for the maid – only I shan’t have a maid. Not to live in. They are only delivering the keys to me tomorrow, so we can’t go in, but we can peep through the windows, if you like. There is a window around the back with the shutter half ajar …’

  She must have seen something in my face. She touched my arm. ‘But you can stay here with me whenever you like – you know that, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You will always be welcome. Always, Dora.’

  14

  That week, Trinidad was buzzing with strangers. Union delegates, miners and company men were all in town, preparing for the great battle ahead. It meant Plum Street was buzzing too. There was a sense of excitement and self-importance in Trinidad, at least among the people involved in the strike: they talked in louder voices and made their busy presence felt in the streets. It was especially grating, set against the weariness of other townsfolk, who knew only that a winter-long miners’ strike – during which angry, able-bodied men would roam the city day and night with not enough to do, and not enough to eat – spelled nothing but trouble. I disliked the mood of the town; and there was plenty of work to be had at home, so I spent more time than usual tucked away at Plum Street. Inez, meanwhile, had possession of the keys to her new little house. And so we saw little of each other. We were both occupied.

  I glimpsed her a couple of times around town, however, ducking in and out of shops. I saw her through the window of Cassell’s Furnishings, standing beside her aunt. She was pointing at things, frowning and laughing. She looked exorbitantly happy. I saw her again, lingering outside the Union offices on Commercial Street, her face lighting up as the Union car spun on by.

  The sky was still a clear blue the day before the strike was set to begin, but there was a bitter wind, a reminder that summer was turning. In the mid-afternoon, I headed out to Jamieson’s Department Store to purchase a gift for Inez’s new house and as I walked I started thinking, not of the gift I might find for her, but of the year that had passed, and the winter to come. I was thinking (my mind often turned to it) about my concert at Mrs McCulloch’s, and of all the ladies who had been on the point of employing me that afternoon; and of the little bungalow I might have rented. I was thinking, as we are wont, I suppose, when the year begins to turn – about the future and the past – and of where I might have stood in the world on that particular afternoon, if only things had been different.

  It was a melancholy walk. Here was winter, approaching again. I felt old and tired and – increasingly nowadays – fearful for the future. Images of myself, ten or fifteen years hence, presented themselves before me: not for the first time, but more vividly than before. I saw myself walking these same streets, offering my services as only the old and hideous must: hidden in the alleyways, my own hands holding up my skirt …

  A cold breeze blew down the street, through to my bones. Might it really come that? More to the point – why wouldn’t it? And then I thought of William Paxton, and the hopes I had allowed myself to pin on him, and what a fool I had been.

  I was pushing through the turning doors into the central emporium of Jamieson’s, my head down, trying to banish the memory of his voice muttering in the pillow above my head: ‘I have bought a nice house in Denver,’ … and I walked slap into the woman. She was young, dainty and expensive, and she was standing before me, looking entirely dismayed, with a small arsenal of prettily wrapped parcels scattered at her feet. Fussing around her, bending to retrieve the shopping, was a large gentleman whose dark hair and cologne were instantly familiar to me.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going. Do you have everything there? I hope nothing is broken …’

  The young lady glanced at me, nodded, but said nothing. She simply stood and waited, dumb as a doorknob, until William Paxton, struggling under the shopping bags, straightened to stand beside her.

  William said, ‘Nothing is broken, thank you.’ He gave a small bow, his eyes on a space to one side of my head. ‘Good day to you,’ he said and, unable to take his beloved’s arm under the bulk of so much shopping, he motioned to her with his head. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘come along. Your poor mother is waiting for us in the auto.’ They walked away.

  I wandered on through the bustling, sweet-smelling hall, past a million knick-knacks and glittering distractions. Ordinarily, the grandeur of Jamieson’s – its sweeping stairs, and curving, looping mezzanines – never failed to raise my spirits. But not today. I had come to buy a present for Inez – of course – but for several moments I simply walked, not looking left or right, imagining the bride from Denver and her little face, too fearful to look at mine; her pretty shopping bags, her simple belief that William would see to everything for her; the fallen packages at her feet, the fallen woman who blocked her path to the turning door. I felt something I rarely felt for virtuous women – something, more accurately, which I forbade myself: jealousy. I hated her. Fleetingly. It was easier to hate her than to give room to my own despair, my dreadful loneliness …

  Coffee cups!

  No, too dull.

  A little ivory elephant? Inez would love that. Or would she? It cost more than I could afford. Perhaps the gilt-framed looking glass would be better in any case … I felt a tap on my shoulder, and heard a voice from behind me, whispering my name.

  ‘Dora?’

  It was William. He glanced around him. ‘I had to come back.’ A look of anguish had settled on his face, and something else, much warmer. He missed me. ‘I wanted to say – hello. And to apologize. And …’

  ‘Don’t apologize! I sent the poor girl flying!’ I smiled.

  He smiled. A pause.

  It seemed we had nothing more to say to each other.

  ‘Well!’ I said brightly. ‘The strike begins tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘The Union has a million dollars behind it, I’m told. It might last right through the winter.’

  ‘A million, huh?’ he said stupidly. He wasn’t listening.

  ‘So I heard … They have tents coming in from the strikers in West Virginia.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So I guess you made the right call. Getting out to Denver.’

  ‘It’l
l be more peaceful there.’

  ‘It surely will,’ I said.

  Another pause.

  He said, ‘I shall miss you, Dora.’

  I would miss him, too. But what was the point in saying it? ‘Well!’ I said instead. ‘It’s an exciting new life you’ll have in Denver. Look me up, won’t you? If you ever come to town. When are you leaving?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Don’t want to get caught up in the mayhem. The roads are going to be hell for a few days. With the miners moving. They’re setting up a big camp out at Ludlow.’

  ‘So I heard. The tents …’

  ‘I have to go,’ he said desperately.

  ‘Your future wife will be getting cold.’ I smiled. ‘Her mother, too.’

  He said, ‘Dora, I heard about the music club incident. At Philippa McCulloch’s place.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Cedric Hitchens was chortling about it. But you know Cedric—’

  ‘I wish I could say I didn’t.’

  ‘I told him it wasn’t funny … y’know?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I meant to say it’s the talk of all the best drawing rooms in Trinidad – once the ladies retire.’

  ‘I’m pleased to have amused you.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not what I meant. I know how much you … At least – I know you told me about the singing … And hell, I don’t know what I’m trying to say, Dora. But I just wanted to tell you that I haven’t forgotten you. I’m a man who keeps his promises. And I’m going to see you right, Dora. Believe me. I’ll drop by Plum Street before I leave town. I swear to it …’

  I reached forward and, hidden beneath my coat, I put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you, William. I thought you’d already left town without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll say goodbye all right. Rest assured! I’ll drop by and … I’ll leave you with something decent. Good enough to get you started in that singing school you wanted.’

  He watched my response with frank, most precious tenderness, and after a moment, tipped his hat and slipped away. He left me standing, smiling like a fool in the midst of the busy crowd, the small ivory elephant grown warm and damp in my hand.