Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  Richard Sterling walked in. He, I was pleased to see, was not wearing his full dress uniform, but he also had had a haircut. His jacket had been dusted off, and his boots shone with fresh polish. I felt a tiny fission of disappointment. Was Richard also so eager for his photograph to be taken? Or did he want to impress the photographer? Young Constable McAllen accompanied him.

  Ray Walker had made no effort to dress up. He stood behind the bar, in the unusual situation of a full house yet no one clamouring to be served, a rag in one hand, shaking his head.

  Aside from Ray, only one other employee of the Savoy was in their regular attire — me. I would hope I am ready at any time to be recorded for posterity. That, however, will not be allowed to happen. I had no intention of standing anywhere in range of Miss Jennings’ cursed instrument.

  I was herding the girls to the back and ordering Joe Hamilton to keep the customers from following them, when the door swung open once again.

  Irene Davidson stood there. She placed her right hand on the door frame and paused, drawing everyone’s attention. The sunlight streaming in from behind traced an aura around her body. Her black-and-scarlet gown clung to her generous curves. I swear I could hear men suck in their breath and Ray Walker swallow from across the room.

  Irene stepped forward and the spell was broken.

  Until now I’d had no intention of actually paying for any photographs. Miss Jennings had said she’d take a picture of the dancers for free as a way of drumming up individual business. Now, I reconsidered. Not for nothing was Lady Irénée the most popular dance hall girl in Dawson. No one would call her beautiful. She was too hefty to be fashionable, and she’d learned her manners (and her accent) on a farm in the Midwest. But she had an aura about her almost as visible as that cast momentarily by the sun, and men were drawn to her as a moth to a flame — if I may be allowed to mix my metaphors.

  If that appeal would translate to a photograph, I might pay for a portrait of Irene myself. Something we could use on a poster to advertise the Savoy.

  Although, I reflected as a three-hundred-pound man trod on my toe, we didn’t really need to advertise at all. Somehow, they kept on coming.

  I gave the man a sniff, glared down the length of my nose, and he slunk away, muttering fulsome apologies.

  If he’d bumped me on purpose, I’d have him thrown out. That’s if I could find a bartender or bouncer to do so. Ray, chest puffed up, back straight, was escorting Irene into the back. His men had rushed to the doors heading into the dance hall as if the place had caught fire.

  Fortunately there was still one person with the presence of mind to observe what was going on. I saw Barney’s hand slide toward the glass of the fellow standing beside him, whose attention was consumed by Irene’s entrance.

  “Barney,” I bellowed, “don’t you dare!”

  Not at all bothered by being caught in the act, he gave me a crooked grin and shrugged. His hand returned to his own (empty) glass. “Snookem Jim’s a good pal of mine,” he said to his bar-mate, fingering his glass. “I can tell you some stories, friend.”

  Ray came back, his men reluctantly following, and I went into the dance hall to supervise the ladies.

  The girls looked like exotic birds, but they chattered like a flock of crows.

  “Do you want me to pose like this, Mrs. MacGillivray?” said Maxie, thrusting her bosom forth in an uncanny resemblance to the bow of a ship.

  “A scene from Macbeth perhaps?” Ellie, who played the Thane of Cawdor to Irene’s MacDuff in the dramatic climax, assumed a swordsman’s stance.

  “I think something more ladylike,” said Betsy, who possessed only a passing familiarity with the concept at the best of times. Placing her hands under her chin she fluttered her eyelashes.

  The girls practiced their poses singly or huddled together discussing what would be best.

  Colleen, the new young dancer, climbed the stage and stood there alone. Smack dab in centre front. Smart woman, I thought. She’d left the others to fuss and quietly staked out the most likely spot.

  Of the men, only Angus, Mr. Mann, and Richard Sterling were permitted to stay. Even Constable McAllen had been banished to the saloon. Not that I expected anything improper to be conducted, but I feared the picture would never get taken in the crush of males either anxious to see their favourite girl pose or to get into the picture themselves. Perhaps both.

  Eleanor Jennings arrived promptly at seven o’clock, carrying a large wooden case. She wore an unadorned skirt and blouse in shades of green with a long white apron tied tightly around her small waist. I suspected the apron served to keep her clothes protected from the photography equipment and harsh chemicals. She was not wearing a hat. Her fair hair was tightly plaited and secured at the back into a circle the size of a dinner plate. She wore no jewellery save for a thin gold hoop through each ear. Angus and Richard Sterling rushed to assist her. She gave Richard a soft smile before turning her attention to my son. She held out a small gloved hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I know who you are. Angus, right?”

  He blushed and stammered and shifted his feet. I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “Do you think you could clear some room for me, right here?” She gestured to the benches lined up in front of the stage awaiting the commencement of the show. “So I can move about.”

  Angus rushed to do her bidding. Mr. Mann and Richard gave him a hand.

  She approached me. “Mrs. MacGillivray, let me thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Miss Jennings turned to the wide-eyed women watching us. She lifted her voice to be heard at the back. “Ladies, it’s very nice of you to come to work early to accommodate me. First, if I may introduce myself, I am Miss Eleanor Jennings of Chicago and I am here to open a photography studio. If you’d like to come to my premises tomorrow to discuss what options are available and make an appointment, here is my card. Mr. MacGillivray, would you be so kind?”

  Angus almost fell over his excessively large feet leaping across a couple of scattered benches to get to her. With a radiant smile she handed him a stack of cards. He began passing them out. The girls snatched them out of his hand as though they were tickets to fame and fortune.

  Miss Jennings studied the room. “The light is very poor in here. Is there another room we can use?”

  I thought of the crush of men outside. “Not if we want to be able to move.”

  “It will have to suffice then.”

  Angus finished handing out the cards. “Can you fetch more lamps, young man?” she asked him.

  He dashed off, accompanied by Mrs. Mann.

  “Now,” Miss Jennings continued, “I know you have a show to put on, so I’ll be quick about it.” She began unpacking the case. The tripod came out first. She unfolded and secured the legs, and placed them on the floor. The camera was next, a square brown box with a bronze tube fastened to the front and a back resembling an accordion. That device was attached to the tripod. Next came a flat square package wrapped in cardboard, which she placed on the bench closest to her, and a black cloth. Some of the dancers pressed in closer to get a better look. Angus and Mrs. Mann returned, bringing three more kerosene lamps. Miss Jennings directed them to place the lamps on the stage.

  When they were lit, she placed her hands on her hips and studied the room. “Insufficient. Illumination is the essence of photography. I’ll have to create light of my own.” She dove into her box and came up with two glass vials and a metal tray with a long handle.

  “What’s that?” Angus asked.

  “Magnesium and a mixture of antimony sulphide and potassium chlorate,” she explained. “When combined and lit, it creates a strong flash of light, so as to illuminate a scene that does not have adequate lighting. It can be dangerous in untrained hands, young man, so keep your distance. Now, if you girls will gather on the stage. Mrs. MacGillivray, stand in the front.”

  “No, thank you. I will remain here and supervise the placement of the
ladies.”

  She looked at me with something approaching surprise and then said, “Very well. Miss Davidson, stand in the centre, beside that lady right there.” She pointed to Colleen. “The rest of you gather around.”

  I hadn’t seen a rush like that since the last time we’d opened the Savoy doors after the enforced Sunday closing. The girls bolted for the stage, pushing and shoving. Maxie stuck an elbow in Betsy’s side, and Betsy almost backhanded her. Ruby took a tumble when Janie shoved her off the stairs, saving herself only by grabbing Ellie’s sleeve, which came away with a shriek of ripping fabric. Ellie screeched and pushed Ruby in the chest. Ruby fell to the floor, landing on her wide, well-padded bottom with a howl of indignation.

  “Ladies, ladies,” I said, “a bit of decorum please. We do have guests. Ruby, stop complaining. If you are hurt, then you may go home. Immediately. Otherwise get up.” Angus held out his hand and helped the dancer lumber to her feet. She rubbed her rear end with both hands as she climbed onto the stage. She tried to wiggle in front of Betsy, who’d secured a prime spot, but Betsy stomped hard on her instep. Ruby gave her a glare that would freeze a gambler’s icy heart but retreated.

  I rolled my eyes once again. I had a difficult night ahead of me: the resentment and fighting would carry into the performance.

  “Are people always so … eager to have their photograph taken,” I asked Miss Jennings who stood in front of the stage, head cocked to one side.

  “No broken bones or blood drawn,” she said making a box of her hands and peering through it. “I’d consider this positively calm. I assume you want Miss Davidson front and centre.”

  “I do.” I was paying Irene the astronomical sum of two hundred dollars a week. I intended to get every penny of my money’s worth.

  I wasn’t surprised that for someone who’d only recently arrived in town, Miss Jennings was remarkably well informed. A woman on her own, trying to succeed in business? No one knew better than I the importance of knowing everyone and everything.

  Miss Jennings directed the girls as if she were putting on a tableau. I suppose photography is much like a tableau. Everyone must be positioned exactly right to make the most favourable impression. Irene stood, as ordered, in the centre, tall and proud. She stretched her neck, lifted her head, shifted slightly to one side, hip thrust forward. The girls were fanned out around her, the prettiest and best dressed in front, the others arranged by height and weight to make a pleasing composition. Betsy and Maxie, grumbling heartily, were sent to the back. Colleen remained in the second-best position at Irene’s right.

  Miss Jennings stood silently for several minutes studying the scene. All fell quiet, the only sound being the muffled hubbub from the gambling room on the other side of the closed doors. The girls began to shift, and she snapped at them. “Miss Davidson, if you please, fluff your skirts a bit more. Thank you. You there, in the blue. Stand where I told you to.” Maxie slunk back into place, accompanied by Betsy’s chuckles.

  Angus hovered at Miss Jennings’ elbow. Richard Sterling came to stand beside me, well behind the range of the camera. “You don’t want to be in the photograph, Fiona?”

  “I’m not the attraction here,” I said with a considerable amount of modesty. “We wish to attract custom because of the quality of our dancers and performers.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  I looked at him. “Of course it is. What are you implying?”

  “Just asking.”

  I busied myself checking my watch.

  Miss Jennings opened the cardboard box and took out a square of glass, about five inches by seven. This she placed into a slot in the centre of the camera.

  Angus edged closer.

  “Would you like to look?” she asked.

  He nodded, and she gestured for him to proceed. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back so as not to disturb anything, bent down, and peered into the back of the box.

  “But it’s upside down!”

  She laughed. “That it is. Upside down and the colours are reversed. What we call a negative image.”

  Miss Jennings unstoppered her two glass vials and poured a tiny amount of powder onto a piece of paper, taking great care putting the cork back in each bottle in turn and instructing Angus to place them on a bench a good distance away. She took the metal tray with the long (exceedingly long) handle and poured the powder mixture onto the surface. An instrument, looking somewhat like a miniature gun, was attached to the tray, which she held high over her head with her right hand. Angus came close and she ordered him to stand back.

  She tossed the black cloth across her head and shoulders and bent forward. She made some minor adjustments to the little wheels at the back of the instrument. “Now everyone, stand perfectly still. There will be a noise and a flash of light, but it’s important that you don’t move.” The girls froze. Ellie clamped her eyes firmly shut. With her right hand, Miss Jennings fiddled with the metal tray, and at the exact moment the powder exploded, she pulled the cap off the bronze eye at the front of the instrument with her left. We held our breath. The cap was replaced and the sudden bright light faded, leaving a good deal of smoke behind. “Don’t move,” she shouted, “I’ll take one more.” She repeated the process. The glass plate was flipped to the other side, the powder was lit, the cap removed, held for less than a second, and then replaced.

  Miss Jennings straightened up and tossed off the black cloth. Blond tendrils escaped from her mussed coil of hair. Her gloves were streaked gray with traces of the powder. Grey smoke curled though the room and tickled my throat. A couple of the girls coughed. “All done,” she announced.

  The women burst into excited babble.

  “When will we be able to see it?”

  “C’n I have my picture taken?”

  “Will you be making copies so I can send one to my mother?”

  I clapped my hands. “Ladies, ladies. We have a show to put on in precisely fifteen minutes.” All through the photography session, I’d been aware that the crowd was building in the gambling hall and the saloon. I’d told Ray to tell the musicians and Roland to remain outside until we were finished. They’d be late getting set up, but I figured the audience would forgive us this once. “Off you go now, backstage. If you’re not in costume, you had best get to it.”

  They scampered off until only Irene remained. She descended the stage as the Queen might come down off her throne. The silk of her gown murmured as it moved. “Thank you, Miss Jennings. I hope we did you justice.”

  Miss Jennings stopped fiddling with her equipment. The edges of her mouth turned up. “Miss Davidson, how could it not, with you in the centre.”

  Oh, dear, I thought.

  “I’d love to do a private portrait. Free of charge, if you’d be willing to pose for me.”

  “That would be great. When?”

  “Why don’t you stop by my studio sometime tomorrow morning, and we can discuss the details. You have my card?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Irene drifted away.

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” Angus said. “I can carry your things if you like.”

  “That would be wonderful, young man, thank you. It gets heavy sometimes.” Miss Jennings turned to me. “Mrs. MacGillivray, I’ll send word once I’ve processed the photographs. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said. I wanted to send Angus to open the doors, but he was intent on studying Miss Jennings’ camera.

  I’d have to do it myself.

  “That was amazing, Fiona,” Mrs. Mann said as she and her husband followed me out. “Jürgen, we must arrange to have Miss Jennings take a photograph of us.”

  He muttered something in German that might have been “over my dead body.”

  We were almost trampled in the rush as men streamed through the doors.

  10

  Richard Sterling stood at the back of the gambling hall, watching. A game of faro was in progress a
nd the stakes were getting high. Over the clattering of the roulette wheel, the muttering of the poker players, and the talk coming from the bar, he could hear Ellie belting out a lively song. She didn’t have much of a voice, Ellie, and no one would call her young, but the men seemed to like her. And that was all that mattered to Fiona MacGillivray and Ray Walker.

  Roland, who appeared at the beginning of the stage entertainment to warm up the men for what they’d really come to see — women singing and dancing and pretending to be acting — was intent on the poker game. He held his cards in one hand and fingered his pile of chips absentmindedly with the other. Sterling came up behind him and had a peek at the cards. Not bad, three queens. He kept his face impassive. No one else would be allowed to stand behind a card player, but Jake would not chase a Mountie away.

  The man to Roland’s right had a full house. Jacks over nines. He was dressed in working man’s clothes. Layers of old grime under fresh mud and dust. His hands were marked by thick callouses and criss-crossed by badly healed scars. He’d made an attempt to wash up, but stubborn dirt clung to the folds and crevices of his skin. Strands of greasy black hair hung over his eyes.

  The Russian was the third player. His small eyes darted nervously around the room, and he drummed a pattern on the table with his left hand. Sterling couldn’t see the man’s cards from where he stood, but the count might as well have hung a sign around his neck letting everyone know they weren’t good.

  The Russian was losing big. Sterling wasn’t particularly surprised — the man was a dreadful player. His face recorded every thought that passed through his head. He’d ordered one of the bartenders to keep his glass topped up.

  Roland and the other player, by contrast, barely sipped at the whisky resting at their elbows.

  Sterling was off duty and could have headed back to the fort for his supper, but he’d lingered after the photography session. Miss Jennings, accompanied by an eager Angus, had departed, and the dancers had begun to prepare for the night’s entertainment.