when she realized that there was no question of Brian, her twelve year-old brother, going with them. “He can’t lose a whole year of hockey,” her mother had said. “And you know how badly he gets bronchitis, even in Vancouver’s mild winters. He couldn’t possibly move to such a cold climate. There isn’t even a doctor in Wells!”
There wasn’t a doctor in Wells — and not much else, either. After only two weeks in the town, Elizabeth began to realize how difficult the year would be. Her mother was busy, working late hours, and she was tired and irritable when she came home. The small trailer was furnished with cheap chrome and plastic furniture; their mattresses were lumpy and stained. Elizabeth missed the big, gracious home in Vancouver, only minutes away from stores, a swimming pool, and movie theatres. She missed her friends, her television programmes (Wells had only one channel), and even her brother, Brian. And she desperately missed her father. More than she had imagined.
Tears began to sting her eyes. Enough of this, Margaret Elizabeth, she told herself firmly. Stop thinking about home. This dumb trailer in this stupid town is your home, at least for a while. There’s nothing you can do about it but stick it out and hope that Mom moves back to Vancouver when the year is over. Smarten up, stop worrying, and do something to take your mind off your problems.
Fine. She would do something. Great idea. But what could she do? She carefully listed her options. Go to the hotel and hang around the kitchen, and maybe peel potatoes for dinner? No. Her mother didn’t really want her in the kitchen, at least not until she had herself more organized at the new job. Besides, thinking about living in Wells for a year had made her angry at her mother, and her resentment would show. It would be better to stay out of her way.
Perhaps Meg MacDonald could use her to babysit little Fay? (The MacDonalds owned the Jack O’ Clubs and Meg worked as assistant manager and bookkeeper.) No. Little Fay was only a year old and would be having her afternoon nap right now.
Well, why not spend some time in the Jack O’ Clubs Hotel, exploring and wandering around? The hotel boasted a large lobby with a big fireplace and comfortable old chairs. A steep staircase led out of the lobby to a warren of narrow corridors with surprising twists and turns. There was one place upstairs, a small bay window, that overlooked the flat, marshy grounds behind the hotel. She particularly liked that spot, and would sometimes take a book there and curl up in one of the old leather chairs. It might be cooler than the trailer. Anywhere would be cooler than the trailer!
No. That idea didn’t appeal to her today. She didn’t really feel like reading.
Okay, then, what about a walk down the street to the Pacific 66? It was an old gas station that sold some gas and oil, but also had the most incredible selection of secondhand ‘junk’ in Wells. There were old books, shelves of them, and only yesterday she had found a first edition of Ray Bradbury’s Golden Apples of the Sun. She had been reading nothing but science fiction for a year now, much to her mother’s disgust, and the Pacific 66 had a good selection of some of her favourite authors.
Or she could just browse through boxes of kitchen utensils, faded make-up, perfumed soap, candles, souvenirs and gum boots. Perhaps she could find another treasure like the large purple glass ball, an old Japanese fishing float, that she had come across earlier this week. Yes, the Pacific 66 sounded like a good idea — except she didn’t have a cent to her name! Until she did some more babysitting for the MacDonalds or collected this week’s allowance she had better stay away from temptation.
What else was there to do on a hot August afternoon in Wells? She could check out the tiny museum again, spend a few hours among the displays of items saved from the gold-rush days. No, she couldn’t do that, either. The museum was closed this afternoon.
Come on, she told herself. Use the imagination every one says you have! Surely you can think of something better to do than sit around a small, hot trailer. How about a swimt
The thought of the long, hot walk back home took all the pleasure out of that idea.
She looked at her watch. Half-past two. She wouldn’t get dinner until seven when the rush was over and all the paying customers in the restaurant had been fed. There were more than four hours to fill in.
Suddenly, she stood up. “Okay,” she said aloud. “Hot or not, there is only one thing for you to do this afternoon. Get on your bike, Margaret Elizabeth, and go and discover Barkerville.”
Grabbing her baseball cap, the blue one that her father had given her because he said the colour matched her eyes exactly, she stepped out of the trailer and into the hot August sun. Her ten-speed was chained to the back of the trailer. She undid the lock, checked the tires, and swung herself up onto the seat.
She coasted down the hill in front of the hotel, turning left onto the highway. Barkerville was supposed to be about eight kilometers from Wells and, as she looked at the highway unwinding in front of her, the air above it heavy with heat haze, she hoped it wasn’t any farther.
Well, Barkerville, she thought as she changed gears and settled down for the long ride, you better be worth the tríp!
Chapter 2
The trip to Barkerville, although longer than Elizabeth had thought it would be, was enjoyable. The air seemed to get cooler as she rode, and more trees lined the sides of the highway. The marsh, with its winding stream, stretched along beside the road for a long way past Wells, and the hills spread out slowly around her as she cycled.
As she rode into the main parking lot in Barkerville, she noticed that the air was much cooler than in Wells. She must have been climbing more than she had thought. She found a bike stand and chained her bike to it. Then she left the parking lot and headed up the main road towards the historic town.
There was no need to hurry, so she walked slowly, letting the tourists scurry around her clicking their cameras. A sign pointed towards the graveyard; she would check that out on her way back.
Elizabeth was curious about Barkerville. She had heard a great deal about the ghost town that had been restored to look as it had in the days of British Columbia’s gold rush. She walked past the museum, and past a large statue of a miner, perhaps Billy Barker himself, panning for gold. Then she was through the gates and looking down the main street of the town.
Even at first glance, Elizabeth was very impressed with Barkerville: the old wooden buildings with their false fronts weathered to a silvery grey and the long boardwalks above the level of the dirt street. As she stood for a moment and looked down the main street, Elizabeth found herself thinking of western movies. A gun-slinger should come bursting out of one of the buildings, she thought. Then the tourists would huddle to one side and the sheriff would come slowly down the street and a real western gun-fight would take place.
The hot day had dried out the street and clouds of dust puffed under people’s feet, giving the town even more the look of a western movie set.
An old church, tall and weathered, dominated the lower end of the town, its steeple towering well above the rest of the buildings. A sign in front said, Saint Saviour’s. Curious, she stepped inside.
The church was empty of tourists for the moment, and the old wooden pews seemed to be silently waiting for a congregation. Elizabeth shivered slightly and hurried outside. The emptiness of the church and the faint smell of dust and mildew had left her with a strange sensation, almost as if she had stepped back in time. It was as if the ghosts of women in bonnets and long skirts, and men in boots and top hats were gathered in the shadows, waiting for her to leave so they could continue their church service.
