by Vicki Delany
Miss Witherspoon accepted the glass with a weak smile and turned away from the bar. Angus had managed to magically snare an empty table and waved her towards it.
Barney didn’t move. He looked at Ray Walker, who had gone back to serving customers. "Are you coming, Mr. uh, Barney?” Miss Witherspoon inquired.
Barney looked at the row of bottles against the back wall. His eyes followed Murray as he poured drinks.
“Mr. Barney?” Miss Witherspoon repeated. Murray leaned over the counter and attempted to speak sotto voce. “Barney expects a drink in exchange for a story, ma’am.”
Miss Witherspoon scrambled in her bag for money. Murray accepted the cash and handed Barney his drink.
“So I said to George,” Barney said, making his way to their table, “look here, George, there ain’t no gold…”
Angus MacGillivray could always tell when his mother was about to enter a room. The men standing by the door fell silent, some of them attempted to slick their cowlicks down, some straightened their tie or suspenders or checked that their shirts were tucked in, and some sucked in their stomachs, while an almost invisible path formed where moments before there’d been a solid line of drinking men.
She floated into the saloon on a cloud of satin of such a pale green, it reminded Angus of the icebergs they’d seen from the first-class deck on their voyage to Canada. He wondered if she knew how the atmosphere in the room changed the minute she approached. She smiled at the men and stopped for a brief moment to chat with a few of them and accept compliments. She seemed to be able to make every man feel he had her full attention, but all the while her black eyes were flitting about the room, noticing everything, missing nothing.
And, eventually, those black eyes settled on her only son, who was trying very hard to make himself invisible.
Her smile didn’t falter, but she waved her hand at a man who was in mid-sentence and stalked across the room. Angus remembered how one of the icebergs had calved as they watched; a great roar and an icy hunk had broken off into the heaving ocean.
“Good evening, Mother,” he said, politely getting to his feet. “You remember Miss Witherspoon?”
“What on earth are you doing sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon?” Fiona looked up with a brilliant smile at a man walking dejectedly out of the gambling hall, shaking his head in disbelief. “Good night, Martin. Please do come again soon. Angus, I’m talking to you.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray, please join us. Angus, fetch another chair for your mother.” Miss Witherspoon’s notebook was covered with chicken-feet scratches that didn’t look anything like English to Angus. He’d been kept busy alternately jotting appointment times on his scrap of paper and ferrying glasses back and forth between the bar and Barney, who hadn’t stopped talking since they’d sat down. Barney burped heartily in greeting.
Fiona settled herself into the chair Angus provided and fluffed her green skirts. “How is your companion, Miss Witherspoon?”
“She is resting at our hotel. I thought it improper to bring a delicate lady into this sort of establishment.”
“Quite. And what brings you here?”
Miss Witherspoon explained while Angus shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Barney’s eyes began to close. Fiona’s smile was as icy as her gown.
“Angus,” she said, once Miss Witherspoon’s narrative came to an end. “I believe it’s time you were going home.”
“Oh, surely not,” Miss Witherspoon said. “We are coming along simply famously. I can’t possibly remain here by myself, and Barney has ever so much more to tell me, don’t you, Barney? Barney?”
But Barney’s head had hit the table, where his cheek rested in a pool of whisky. Fiona raised her arm and snapped her fingers. Murray came running. “Take Barney home,” she said.
Murray tucked his bartender’s cloth into the waistband of his trousers and lifted the old miner under the arms. Fiona was fond of Barney, and he was always taken care of in the Savoy. If anyone else collapsed, they’d be tossed out into the street with little regard for what might be concealed under the mud or any vehicle that might be passing by.
“It would appear,” Fiona said, “that your interview is over, Miss Witherspoon. Angus, escort Miss Witherspoon to her lodgings. And then go home.”
Miss Witherspoon gathered up her belongings and dug through her bag for two crisp dollar bills, which she thrust into Angus’s hand. “Do you have my appointments for tomorrow evening, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am. Starting at eight o’clock.” She pulled out a man’s heavy pocket watch and held it
in front of her, stretching her arms to almost their full length. “Close to midnight.” The watch snapped shut under the force of her approval. “I’d say that was a most successful evening. Make my last appointment for eleven. This seems to be late enough for me.” She pushed back her chair and patted the front of her dress. Her white gloves were stained with spilled whisky, pencil lead and a good coating of dust.
“Would you care to join us for tea tomorrow, Mrs. MacGillivray? Say two o’clock at my hotel? An improper hour for tea, I know, but that’s when your son starts work, and I expect we’ll be busy for the remainder of the day. I’ve noticed that in Dawson people are somewhat relaxed in consideration of proper social convention, therefore the early hour will be of no consequence. Euila’s most anxious to talk with you. Until tomorrow, good evening.”
Miss Witherspoon sailed out of the Savoy, looking a great deal more confident than when she had entered. Angus gave his mother a glance before running after Miss Witherspoon.
He didn’t often see his mother at a loss for words.
* * *
Once I got over my initial shock at seeing Angus in the company of Miss Witherspoon, I decided I was rather pleased with the boy. As a girl, I’d lived in comfortable rural poverty on Skye, when my parents were alive, and grinding urban misery in the worst slums of London after their deaths. Whenever my son got too satisfied with the life I provided for us in Dawson, I reminded him quickly enough that bad fortune is always lurking around a corner. I was rather proud that he was showing initiative and earning money. I would have preferred it weren’t from Miss Witherspoon, having been determined to keep Angus and Euila from meeting again, but other than tie him to his bed until they left town, I had no way of preventing him from associating with them. Any direct order to stay out of their way would only make the boy curious. I would try, somehow, to indicate to Euila at tea tomorrow that she should not tell Angus about our mutual past. I’d always been able to manipulate her into doing anything, and Euila didn’t appear to have grown any more backbone since our childhood.
It would be nice to spend some time with Euila Forester, I thought, but I wasn’t too keen on having tea with her and Martha Witherspoon in the company of my wide-eared son. As it happened, I managed, with no conniving on my part, to get out of it.
I slept through the appointment.
When I woke from my afternoon sleep at the regular time of three o’clock, I stumbled into the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. A note sat on the counter, propped up against a light blue can of Old Chum smoking tobacco, in which Angus explained that he didn’t want to disturb me and would offer my excuses to the ladies.
I poured a cup of the thick, black, far-too-strong coffee which Mrs. Mann had left on the back of the stove, and smiled at my good fortune in having such a thoughtful son. After tasting the coffee, I dumped it into the bucket that served as a sink and got ready for the second half of my day.
The Savoy was quiet when I arrived. Not-Murray was filling the big barrel of drinking water behind the bar. Helen Saunderson came out of her storage closet/kitchen lugging one of the enamel spittoons, temporarily clean. Barney slouched against the counter and lifted one hand in lazy acknowledgement of my arrival. I stopped to chat for a few minutes with a table full of old timers who were still covered in a thick layer of mud and dust from the Creeks. They were as excited as schoolboys at the start of hal
f-term break at getting the opportunity to tell me all about their lucky strike. They opened their bags and let me take a peek at the pile of gold dust and the handful of nuggets inside.
I offered my congratulations, wondering how long it would be before the gold found its way out of their bags and into my bank account.
Excusing myself, I headed for the gambling rooms. A rotten floorboard squeaked under my weight. The place was so badly made that even though it wasn’t yet a year old, the floorboards were already protesting. The poker tables were empty, but a few games of faro and roulette were in progress. The fat American gambler named Tom Jannis stood at the roulette table, shouting at the wheel to land on red. His face was very round and very red and dripped with sweat. The crispness of his clothes was wearing off, and his cuffs were showing more than just dust. He wore a wool scarf, too hot for this weather, which I assumed hid a tattered collar.
“No more bets,” Jake, our head croupier, called out, and the wheel settled slowly to rest on red. Jake raked in a few of the white twenty-five cent chips belonging to the other players but slid a good-sized pile of blue five-dollar ones towards Jannis.
Chloe stood at Jannis’s elbow, squealing enthusiastically while the wheel turned. Her faded purple dress had a layer of dried mud around the hem and a tear through the elbow. The lace protecting her scrawny bosom needed a wash.
“Get out, Chloe,” I said in a low voice. She turned, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m here with a gentleman, Mrs. MacGillivray. As his guest.” She tried to lift her chin, but her eyes watered, and her attempt at a ladylike sniff came out more like she had allergies.
With single-minded concentration, Jannis divided his winnings into neat piles.
“Hey,” Chloe screeched, “are you gonna let her throw me outta this dump?”
Jannis studied the table, debating where to place his chips. I was about to call for a bouncer, when he said, “Her dump, you do what she says.” He arranged his chips across the board, concentrating on the lower numbers with a big pile on zero. Jake spun the wheel.
“Get out, Chloe,” I said.
She glared at the back of Jannis’s uninterested head.
“No more bets,” Jake said.
Chloe turned and stomped out of the room. I was the only one who watched her leave.
“Twenty-five,” Jake said.
Chapter Eleven
The rest of that day and through the next, I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see the miserable Chloe haunting my steps. Leaving the house on Thursday evening, I caught a flash of purple at the side of the building across the street. But by the time several overloaded carts had rumbled past, there was no sign of her. There was, however, a patch of purple fireweed growing amongst the stumps of trees that had been levelled to create the street. The flowers were not the same colour as Chloe’s dress, but I convinced myself I might have been mistaken in thinking I’d seen my former dancer.
Nevertheless, I told Ray to tell the men to keep Chloe out and to let me know immediately if she turned up again.
It was nearing closing time, and the dance hall was a mass of humanity; all the percentage girls were dancing, and men were lined up waiting to have the opportunity to pay a dollar for a single minute of their company. Irene had spent most of the night dancing with Tom Jannis, unfortunately keeping him away from the tables where I could earn more off him than a dollar a minute. I dragged her away with a weak excuse and told her to go upstairs and sit in my office for a half hour or so. However, instead of going into the gambling hall, he disappeared. I cringed as a bow scraped across the violin strings. The orchestra was getting tired, and they were starting to make mistakes. Murray was climbing down the stairs from the balcony carrying an armful of empty champagne bottles, for which we charged forty dollars a quart. Mouse O’Brien leaned over the railing and waved to me. Mouse had had a rare poor night at the poker table, but unlike most of our customers, he knew when to cut his losses and seek other entertainment. I waved back.
A spot behind my right eye was beginning to throb. If I didn’t get some fresh air, I’d spend the rest of the night with a headache.
I slipped out the back door and stood in the narrow, grubby alley that separated the Savoy from the mortuary and dry goods shop behind. The light was dim from the rays of a sun that had only dipped behind the hills for a moment before rising again for another twenty-two hours.
I picked my way through the muck in the alley, stretching my legs and enjoying the fresh air, what there was of it above the scent of dog urine, human vomit and assorted trash. A man and a woman were arguing in the shadows towards York Street. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. None of my business: at this time of night, in the alley, they couldn’t be much else but a whore and either her pimp or her mark. As I started to turn around, the woman raised her voice, and I recognized the well-educated, properly-enunciated accent.
I tiptoed forward and peeped through the gloom. Tom Jannis had Mary pressed up against the wall. “You know you want it,” he said while his hand fumbled with her skirts, which were gathered up around her waist. Whether she was trying to push his groping hand away, or help him to release her undergarments, I couldn’t tell.
“Stop that!” I shouted, in my best Lady-Muck-Muck accent. “Release that woman.”
Jannis stepped back. The dim light revealed Mary’s halfunbuttoned shirt. She hesitated, not knowing what to do first: straighten her skirts or fasten her bodice. In her embarrassment, she did neither.
“Oh, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said.
“Haven’t you got anything better to do than hang around back alleys looking for people to interfere with?” Jannis said. His round face was red with anger and the residue of excitement.
“No,” I said. “It looks like it’s a good thing, too.”
His clothes were dishevelled, and his hat was lying in the dirt. He straightened his tie and scooped up his hat. “Regardless of what this might look like to you, madam, I am simply trying to get value for my money.”
“No,” Mary said, fumbling to do up her buttons. “That’s not true.”
“Get inside, Mary,” I said. Jannis dusted his hat in a lazy gesture, and Mary ran past me, her face averted.
“Best you be on your way,” I said.
“Or?” His eyes wandered boldly down the front of my dress.
“I am not without friends and influence in this town.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. I don’t care much for Indians anyway.” He put on what he probably considered to be a hard man tone in an attempt leave me no doubt as to what he preferred. He was trying to be intimidating, but I’ve stood up to men a good deal tougher than he. And many a good deal more powerful.
“You’re banned from the Savoy,” I said.
“That’s no hardship.” He placed his hat neatly on his head. “Plenty of joints like it. But I’ll be seeing you around soon. Mrs. MacGillivray.”
He touched the brim of his hat, smirked and walked away, down York to Front Street. The skies were clear, and it was a warm, humid night. A drop of sweat ran down the small of my back and under my corset, while a knot of red rage boiled up in my chest. I’d allowed Mary to stay in the Savoy, against the advice of everyone from Richard Sterling to Helen Saunderson, and now it looked like they were right after all. Mary could come back inside to collect her belongings, then she could get the hell off my property.
As I turned, I caught a whiff of cigar smoke. A red spark burned in the shadows, a man’s face behind it. Someone was watching me. The spark faded as the man retreated further into the gloom. Someone else out for the air, I assumed. Tonight, at least, the back streets of Dawson were no place to be if one was in need of privacy.
I hurried after Tom Jannis, wanting to make sure he didn’t try to come in through the front door. He sauntered across York Street and joined the line at the Vanderhaege sisters’ bakery. He must have known I was watching him, but he didn’t look around; he said something to a gro
up of men, and they laughed. A couple of drunks came swaying down the boardwalk towards me, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, singing in surprisingly good voices about someone named Johnny whom they hardly knew.
Out of the corner of my eye, through a momentary break in the crowds, I saw a skinny figure weaving its way through the mob, heading south. When I looked again, she’d disappeared in the mass of men.
Chloe. No doubt about it.
This was getting ridiculous. Next I’d be finding her in my bed. I considered chasing after her and having it out, but I next considered what ”having it out” might mean for Chloe. I couldn’t afford to ruin another dress. I wasn’t particularly concerned about myself; what could a miserable chit like her do to me? But if I ever found her anywhere near Angus…
My break had not improved my mood, and I returned to the Savoy in a rage. There was only one reason I could think of for why Mary would be out in the alley. It was not uncommon for dancers and percentage girls to earn extra on the side; some dance hall proprietors encouraged it, and the Mounties ignored it unless it became too obvious. Ray and I most emphatically forbade the custom: it helped to keep our dancers popular and our prices high if the girls were considered unobtainable. But Mary was an Indian, and the Mounties were trying to keep the Indians away from white men’s vices. If the authorities thought I was prostituting her, I’d be closed down before I could shout “respectable”. And if it wasn’t bad enough that she was using my hospitality to continue in her old profession, she was risking a lot worse than my anger by going freelance in the face of Joey LeBlanc, who knew everything that went on in the alleys of Dawson. And then there was Chloe. She was watching the Savoy— to what aim I couldn’t imagine. Unless simply to annoy me, at which she succeeded magnificently.
The throbbing spot behind my eye had now taken possession of my entire head.