Never Look Back

  It struck Matilda last thing that night before she fell asleep that it was the first reference to her past that Cissie had made since she arrived here in Oregon eleven months ago. Was it just the dress, or had Cissie been thinking about it a great deal?

  In San Francisco, a month later in early October, Matilda stood on the waterfront watching the cart carrying the last of the timber trundle away. Her reticule fastened firmly to her wrist was stuffed with banker’s drafts and although it was raining heavily, she was glowing with pleasure.

  She could have sold four times as much. As each stack was lowered on to the lighters which carried it to the waterfront, men had come up to her again and again to ask if she had any timber to spare. But the owner of each of the loads had been far too eager for that, they’d all been waiting to meet the ship, and they paid her and carted the timber away speedily. After all the trials and hard work of the past weeks she was almost disappointed she wasn’t left with just one load to auction off. She knew with utter certainty she would have got a great deal more money for it that way.

  It was a heady feeling to have succeeded in a man’s world, to see admiration on the faces of men who a few months earlier had seemed almost scornful of her ability to deliver. They would all give her new orders, most certainly of three or four times the size, but it wouldn’t be her filling them – Cissie had made it plain before she left that she wanted to sell the mill.

  On the long voyage down here Matilda had churned the question as to why Cissie wanted to get shot of it over and over in her mind. At first it had seemed that she wanted to cut free from painful memories of John, but now Matilda wasn’t so sure.

  It seemed more likely, after weighing up the way Cissie had shown no real appreciation for her efforts, and the way she often treated her like a poor relation, that maybe she didn’t want Matilda running the sawmill because she felt she would be relegated to a role of housekeeper.

  On their last evening together Cissie had suddenly announced that she wanted to sell the cabin and the land, to move into the town and open up a small shop. Matilda hadn’t liked to point out that a shop owner needed to be able to read and write well, nor had she liked to ask if Cissie was trying to tell her to find a home of her own.

  But she wasn’t going to ponder on Cissie any more for now. It was nearly five in the evening, so she was going straight to Zandra’s parlour to see her and find out if she had managed to arrange a room for her.

  As she made her way to Kearny Street she could hardly believe the amount of new buildings since she was last here. Several hotels, which looked like the real thing, more saloons, shops, restaurants and houses had jumped up on all available lots like mushrooms. But the rain made the street like a quagmire and she had to pick up her skirts and do what everyone else was doing, hop from one strategically placed crate, box or plank to another.

  Dolores the maid opened the door to her and ushered her through the main room to Zandra’s sitting-room, telling her as she went that her mistress’s legs were in a bad way.

  Matilda was very curious about the maid. She was a very plain woman, with a severe expression, but from the affectionate manner in which Zandra had mentioned her several times in the letter which came just before Matilda left Oregon, it was clear she was more than just a maid to her. That was just another thing Matilda would like to find out about.

  ‘My dear, how lovely to see you again,’ Zandra said, and struggled to get up from her chair. ‘I can’t tell you how good it was to hear you were coming. I’ve already heard from one of my sources that your customers were all lined up as the ship came in. You must be so pleased to see the last of timber for a while.’

  Her sitting-room was unexpectedly beautiful, very small but decorated in cream and blue, with dainty furniture which looked French. There were many books and small pictures but it wasn’t cluttered with ornaments as was the fashion. Matilda felt by looking at it she was seeing another side of this interesting old woman, at heart very feminine and cultured.

  When Zandra grimaced with pain Matilda nudged her back into her chair. ‘It’s good to see you again too, but not to see you poorly. What’s wrong with your legs, can I get you anything for them?’

  ‘It’s just old age, and I have to accept that,’ Zandra smiled. ‘Now, tell me about your friend, how tragic that her husband was killed.’

  Matilda told her a little about how Cissie and the children had been when she got home, and how getting the timber orders filled and shipped had seemed to be so important if Cissie was to sell the sawmill. She laughed as she described the panic she’d been in for fear she couldn’t get it all done in time.

  ‘But where will this leave you if she does sell up?’ Zandra asked.

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ Matilda replied, frowning because Zandra was voicing the niggling worry she’d been hearing in her own head. ‘It’s odd really because Cissie talks about my children in the same way she does about hers, like she can’t imagine life without them around her. But she doesn’t ever ask if I’ve got any plans, sometimes I think she imagines I just have to fit in with her.’

  ‘Two women in one house rarely works,’ Zandra said in sympathy. ‘Especially when they are both strong characters. But what is it you’d like to do?’

  ‘Well, when I last saw you I was thinking about finding some business of my own down here. But then I never imagined anything happening to John. I did suggest to Cissie that we all move down here, and for a time she seemed to like that idea, but I think she’s changed her mind now. That makes it difficult for me, I suppose I’d just assumed she would look after the children while I supported us all. Of course I could get some land of my own up there, but I’d never make much money and it’s such a hard life for a woman on her own.’

  Zandra leaned forward and to Matilda’s surprise she took her right hand in hers, and peeled off her lace glove.

  ‘No, don’t look at them,’ Matilda cried out, trying to snatch her hand away, but Zandra held it tight and ran her finger over the calluses and scars. What with the digging, chopping wood and splinters from the sawmill, they were even worse than they’d been a few months earlier.

  Zandra tutted. ‘They say everything about your life up there,’ she said softly. ‘You must find a way to use your fine brain to make a living rather than labouring as you have so clearly been doing. If you continue like this you will be old before your time.’

  ‘I was born to hard work,’ Matilda said.

  ‘I was born into the nobility,’ Zandra retorted. ‘But one doesn’t necessarily have to accept that the position one was born into is the only one for you. Tell me what you want most from your life.’

  Matilda was startled for a moment. That question had been fired at her twice before, first by Flynn, then by Giles, both formative characters in her life. She had a strong feeling that this woman was going to have an equally great sway on her future.

  ‘To see Tabitha and Amelia have a good education.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So they don’t feel they have to marry the first man that asks them, so they can choose to be doctors, teachers or lawyers if that’s what they want.’

  ‘So they can be accepted in the right social circles is what you really mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Matilda said, feeling a little embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t be bashful with me, my dear,’ Zandra said with a half-smile. ‘You are right to want something better for your children, but the kind of education you want for them is expensive. You will never earn enough with a parcel of land in Oregon. You will have to think bigger than that.’

  ‘I know,’ Matilda said sorrowfully. ‘Most of the way here I was thinking about it. I could maybe twist Cissie’s arm to make her keep the sawmill, and get enough orders for timber while I’m here to make it really pay, but even if Cissie agreed to it, the work, the organizing is so hard, I don’t think I could do it for very long.’

  Zandra nodded. ‘That’s because it’s not right for yo
u. For one thing you have to rely on getting male help for it all, for another, unless you could get Cissie to agree to a real partnership, the profits won’t go to you, but to her. You would get no joy from it, only get worn down with the hard work. And you and Cissie would soon fall out. What you’ve got to dream up is some scheme that is all yours. Something you can put your soul into, and will make a great deal of money at.’

  ‘I’ve already tried to think of something, but I can’t,’ Matilda said, pulling a face. ‘I know there is something here in San Francisco, something right under my nose, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘I’ve booked a room for you in a new hotel close to here,’ Zandra said. ‘Now, tonight when you are tucked up in bed, you must first think of all the places, shops and businesses that you ever admired, or felt some affinity with in your life. Then once you’ve got a mental list of those, go through each of them and try to imagine them here, and if they’d be successful. Once you’ve done that, think of all the talents you have, and ask yourself if they would slot into such a scheme.’

  ‘I’ll probably come up with an idea I can’t afford,’ Matilda joked.

  ‘How much money you have doesn’t matter. If you get a good enough idea there are always people who will back you,’ the older woman said with a knowing smile. ‘But you should leave now, my dear. My gentlemen will start arriving soon and I don’t want you to run into any of them. Come and see me again in the morning.’

  Matilda left soon after with the directions to the hotel Zandra had given her in her hand. It was dark now, raining even more heavily, and a strong wind was coming in from the sea. She stood for a moment or two under a canopy of the shop below the parlour house entranced by the sight in the street, for she hadn’t seen it at night before. Lanterns burned above every saloon, their lights glistening in the puddles and bouncing off shop windows. Music was coming from every direction, including the piano from upstairs in Zandra’s parlour, Irish jigs played on fiddles, penny whistles, a harp and a guitar. Along with the music was loud laughter, the clink of glasses and the sound of hobnailed boots stomping on a wooden floor. Further along the street were two tents for gambling, the bright lights inside silhouetting the players at the tables, reminding her of a shadow theatre. The air was full of tantalizing smells of food – fried onions, bacon, steak and many more which she couldn’t identify.

  But it was the variety of people darting here and there to get out of the rain that was even more fascinating. Gentlemen in top hats, sharp-looking men in derbys and natty suits, army officers in uniform, a sprinkling of sailors, Chinese, Negroes, and grubby-looking miners in tattered clothing. Girls too were in every doorway, inviting the men inside, their satin dresses catching the gleam of the lanterns and every man’s eye. So maybe the street was filthy, but it was the most exciting sight ever. She knew this was where she really wanted to be.

  The hotel was small and so new it still smelled of wood and fresh paint, and the owners, Mr and Mrs Geiger, a German couple, greeted her warmly. They said in halting English that their guests were only respectable business people, and that they changed the sheets after each guest, and provided a dinner each evening too.

  Sheets, whether changed or not, were something of a luxury, and although Matilda’s room was tiny, and the walls were only thin partitions, the bed was clean, there were hooks behind the door to hang her clothes, and there was a wash-stand with a bowl and pitcher of water, along with a chamber-pot beneath the bed.

  After a surprisingly good dinner of roast pork, sharing a large table with a couple from Santa Fe who said they were in town to buy land, and two commercial travellers from St Louis, Matilda went to bed. She was very tired, the voyage here had been rough, and the excitement of what lay ahead of her had prevented her from sleeping very well.

  She did what Zandra had advised, and as memories of many fascinating businesses in London came into her head, she sat up, relit her candle, and taking a note-pad from her carpet-bag, made a list.

  There was the sweet shop in Oxford Street she had always stopped to look at. She could see right now the hundreds of jars on the shelves, see the lady inside weighing them up and tipping them into paper cones. There was a hat shop too, that had always caught her eye, and a shoe shop which grand ladies swept into while their carriages waited outside.

  She had always liked the look of an ale house in the Strand. The smell of cigars wafted out with the sound of male laughter. There was the pie shop in Fleet Street, and the doll shop in Regent Street. The printer’s in Fetter Lane had always fascinated her with its pungent smell of ink and the man who picked out little metal letters and slotted them into rows. She’d always rather fancied the undertaker’s in Hampstead too, there was something peaceful about the flowers in the window and the purple satin surrounding them, not to mention the fine hearse pulled by four black horses.

  The more select second-hand clothes shop in Rosemary Lane was good, so was the marine shop where the scavengers took their day’s findings to sell, the sausage shop and the cheese stand in the market. She could remember admiring dozens of book shops down Charing Cross Road. And flower shops, too – she had loved so many of those.

  Theatres of course, they had to go down, not that she’d ever been into any of the gilded palaces she’d admired. And that place in the Haymarket, the one where all the toffs took the gay girls.

  She paused as a vivid picture of the last one came into her mind. At night they had flaming torches alight outside, a man in red livery opened the doors for customers, and a burst of exciting music always wafted out. They had shows on in there, dancing girls, performing dogs, jugglers and fire-eaters, sometimes prize fighters too. Once the doorman had allowed her to take some rosebuds in there to sell, and she’d been so spellbound by the act up on the central stage, a lady contortionist, that she didn’t approach anyone to sell her flowers.

  When she had filled right down the left-hand side of the page with ideas, she went back down them crossing out ones she couldn’t imagine working in here in San Francisco. Only two, the hat shop and ladies’ shoes, were definite mistakes, she wasn’t sure about the book shop. At the moment she doubted anyone read, but maybe they would if books were available. Nor was she sure about the marine shop. Was there any market for secondhand nails or bits of wood? A doll shop could work, most of the men who came here had children, but then would they buy a doll when they were living in such primitive conditions?

  The next column was for her talents. Reading and arithmetic, selling, she could shoot straight, drive a wagon, cook, clean, and look after people.

  Digging the pencil into her cheek, she studied that short list and thought it sounded dull. She could make people laugh, she was good at giving orders, she was a happy person, quick-witted and pretty, so she put all those down too.

  Finally the last list: how those talents would slot into the ones on the first column. At first glance the only one where they wouldn’t fit was the undertaker’s. Being happy and making people laugh was not an asset in that business, so she crossed it out.

  Sweets she could do, but would it make enough money? There were more than enough ale houses and saloons already. And pie shops too, even if none of them was as lovely as the one she remembered in London. Second-hand clothes were a possibility, but where would she go to acquire them? Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of lice. Flowers were lovely, but who would buy them here, even if she managed to find a supplier?

  A printer’s was a good idea, she didn’t think there was one already, but she knew nothing about printing, so that was out. So were theatres a good idea, but she doubted her talents stretched to that, and it would cost a fortune to build.

  Only one thing was left. The fun house in the Haymarket.

  She blew the candle out then and lay down, but a bubble of excitement ran up through her veins and seemed to burst, sending out thousands more. That was it, the one thing this town needed. There were enough ordinary saloons to get every man in California drunk
for a week, brothels galore, dozens of casinos to relieve them of their hard-earned money. But although eating, drinking, gambling and sex had been taken care of, there just wasn’t any harmless entertainment.

  She could run a place like that, she knew she could. Dancing girls, clowns, jugglers and fire-eaters could be advertised for in other cities. There were musicians in town already, she’d heard them playing on street corners for a few cents thrown in a hat. A few pretty girls to act as waitresses could be found easily enough. Maybe girls to dance with the men customers too.

  ‘But it would be so expensive to set up,’ she thought. ‘It would need to be big, solidly built in a prominent place, with luxurious fittings so it attracted the rich people. Would anyone lend me that kind of money?’

  She fell asleep imagining herself in a velvet gown with diamonds around her neck, mingling with her customers as dancing girls performed on her stage.

  Next morning Matilda rushed into Zandra’s sitting-room without waiting for Dolores to announce her. ‘I’ve got the idea!’ she said.

  Zandra had both legs up on a low stool to ease the swelling, but she forgot her discomfort at the sight of Matilda’s flushed face and sparkling eyes. ‘Come and tell me about it then,’ she said. ‘Bring us tea, Dolores. If any of the girls want me they’ll have to wait until later.’

  ‘What about a fun palace?’ Matilda asked, and promptly went into a spirited and visual description of it. ‘Dancing girls, snake-charmers, fire-eaters, every night a different show. Something for everyone, and the show is included in the price of the drinks. A place a man could take his wife, or his sweetheart, somewhere he wouldn’t lose all his earnings, or get so drunk he couldn’t stand up.’

  Zandra’s bright smile made her bring out the crude sketches she’d made of how the interior should be: a central stage, so the customers could wander around, a small dance floor, a long bar along one side. She said she thought it should be further up on the hill, so that people could see the lights outside for miles around.