Fortune is a Woman (18 page)

"What's that then, Dad?" she asked, astonished he had passed a comment on something other than his food or the house.

"This 'ere earthquake," he said, pushing away the porridge untouched and spooning sugar into his tea instead.

Annie was kneeling on the hearthrug toasting bread over the glowing coals on a long brass fork. Two slices lay ready on the flannel-wrapped hot brick, and her cheeks were pink from the heat. She glanced over her shoulder exasperatedly. "What earthquake, Dad?"

"The earthquake in San Francisco, like it says here in t'paper. Read it for yourself."

"San Francisco? An earthquake?" Dropping the toasting fork she ran to the table and grabbed the newspaper, scanning the story rapidly. Her eyes grew round with horror, her face turned pale, and she clutched her hand to her heart. "Oh Dad," she whispered, "it can't be true."

"It'll be true enough," he replied, sipping his tea. "There was alius a rumbling going on under that city even when I was there."

"You don't understand." She sank into her chair, covering her face with her apron so he would not see her tears. She thought of Josh in San Francisco, maybe dead, maybe buried under a shattered building or burned in the inferno. What could she do?
Oh, what could she do?
Her beloved, beautiful, innocent Josh...

After a while she dried her tears and picked up the newspaper again. Her father was still sitting quietly over his cup of tea, his breakfast lay untouched and he was puffing on his old pipe, filling the room with smoke the way he did every morning. She wanted to scream at him to stop it, that his son might be lying maimed under a ton of rubble or burned to ashes. Instead she read the story again.

It said news reports were still sketchy because all communications had been cut by the massive quake. The state of California had already sent help and the major American cities were dispatching food, blankets, clothing, and money to aid the survivors. The fire chief had been killed in the first tremor when the firehouse collapsed around him, and the water mains had fractured so there was no water to fight the blaze. The whole city was alight, nothing could save it. The brand-new eight-million-dollar City Hall had crumbled to dust, the fantastic Palace Hotel, the world's largest, was reduced to ashes and Nob Hill's mansions were even now being devoured by the flames.

The famous opera star, Enrico Caruso, escaped with his company on a specially commissioned train before the fires took hold. He said the city was "a hell of a place," and swore he would never come back. After the first shock the citizens had run into the streets, wondering what to do. When things quieted down, most of them decided to cook themselves some breakfast, and with the many broken gas mains the city soon had a dozen fires burning. There was no proper fire-alarm system and no water, and the fires had spread quickly until by noon the same day fifty separate fires were burning, leaping from wooden building to wooden building, gathering strength until they became one raging inferno, generating an evil sucking wind so hot that it melted anything in its path. "San Francisco is doomed," the report concluded, "along with many of its citizens."

Annie did not know how she got through that day. At four o'clock she rushed down Aysgarth's Hill to the corner shop and bought a copy of the
Evening Post
late edition, hoping for better news, but it said things were worse, the whole city was alight. Tented refugee camps were being set up in San Francisco's parks and across the bay in Oakland, where many had escaped to on the ferries. They said the citizens were fleeing from the flames, that bound-foot Chinese women unable to walk were being carried through the streets, that terrified children were running by their parents' sides clutching their toys while their elders struggled with dogs and cats and caged birds, pictures and pianos—whatever they treasured most they lugged with them. "Though what will become of them or their possessions no one knows."

Annie walked slowly back up the hill. She thought of all the nights she had knelt by her bed and prayed for proof of Josh's innocence so that he might return to her, and for his health and happiness far away in San Francisco, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt what she had to do. She trudged slowly up the hill, her eyes on the toes of her shiny black boots, thinking of her plan.

That night after his supper when Frank Aysgarth had sunk into his chair, lit his pipe and was staring silently into the flames as usual, she said, "Dad, I need to talk to you. There is something I have to do."

"Hmmph," he growled, not even looking at her.

"I have to go away, Dad," she said loudly. His head swiveled and he took the pipe from his mouth, astonished. "Away? Are y'daft in the head or summat? Don't talk rubbish, Annie." That settled, he puffed on his pipe again and stared back into the flames.

"I mean it, Dad," she persisted. "I have to go find Josh. You see, Dad, he went to San Francisco and I just have to know whether he's alive or dead. And if he's dead, then— then I'll see he's buried properly, in consecrated ground."

"They'll never bury a
murderer
in consecrated ground!" Frank roared. His face had turned beet red and he puffed angrily on his pipe, filling the kitchen with the powerful scent of his tobacco.

"Josh is innocent," she retorted. "Sammy Morris had him run off so quick he never even had a chance to defend himself. And all the police knew was Mrs. Morris's story that Sammy had found him standing over the woman's body."

She looked at her father, but he just puffed on his pipe, staring silently into the fire like always. Suddenly she saw a tear slide down his cheek and lose itself in his bristly gray moustache. Then another and another...

"Oh, Dad," she said helplessly, not knowing how to comfort him because she couldn't just go and throw her arms around him like she would have with Josh. "Don't take on so. Your youngest son's no murderer, I'll guarantee that. No matter what Sally Morris says or doesn't say."

"He finished me, Annie," he said, ignoring the tears pouring down his face. "Our Josh finished me off. A man has a right to look to the future through his sons. And he was my favorite, you know that, though I tried never to show it, I alius treated 'em all the same. I never expected anything like this in our family. Never."

Annie looked away from him, she could not bear to see his crumpled face and his shaking hands and the unstoppable tears that must have been damned up in him since Josh left. Frank Aysgarth was allowing himself the luxury of emotion for the first time in his life and she knew it was the best thing that could happen to him. After a while she said, "Dad, I'm going to San Francisco to find him. I'm going to clear his name—
our
name. You'll not go to your grave thinking your son a murderer. I'm asking you for two things, Dad. One is the money I need to go with. And the other is secrecy. Nobody must know where I've gone or why."

He looked at her, his face quivering, and for the first time in her life she pitied him. "You'll do that?" he whispered.

She nodded. "I promise."

"Then you shall have the money tomorrow. And it'll just be between you and me, Annie. Nobody else will know."

She smiled gratefully. "And I promise you will have your honor back—whether your son is dead or alive."

The next morning Frank Aysgarth was seen walking down the street for the first time in over a year. The neighbors ran to the door to watch him pass, noticing his white hair and hesitant step, wondering out loud what he did with himself all alone with Annie atop Aysgarth Hill.

"For all his money and success he's nobbut an old man now," they said, disappointed.

And Sally Morris, older and more bitter, leaned from her doorway and yelled after him, "I'm surprised y'dare show yer face around here after what Josh did. And making our Sammy run off with him like that. It's you and your rich ways that corrupted my lad, Frank Aysgarth, and God will never forgive you for it."

The neighbors sucked in their breath in alarm as he stumbled and almost fell, but then he righted himself and stepped quickly along the street, staring straight in front of him as though he had never heard a thing.

Two hours later they saw him come back up the street again and disappear homeward up Aysgarth's Hill. A while later Annie Aysgarth hurried past and this time all the heads were turning, wondering what she was up to in such a hurry. And they were even more surprised when the following week a cab came to take Annie and all her boxes and baggage to the railway station, and Bertie Aysgarth and his wife and bairns moved into Ivy Cottage to take care of the old man.

CHAPTER 14

Lai Tsin was puzzled. In the six days since he had found the girl she had not spoken another word. She was as trusting as the child; when he brought her food and said "eat this," she ate; when he said "follow me," she followed; when he said "wait here," she waited. And he knew if he failed to return she would wait forever. She showed no curiosity about her circumstances nor the plight of the other two hundred and fifty thousand homeless camping out in the city's parks. She simply sat with the child in her lap, staring into space, suspended in time.

He sighed feelingly. It was a dilemma. He had taken responsibility for her as he would a person wounded in battle, afraid she had gone crazy from shock and her injuries. But he could not go on looking after her. He was a poor Celestial with many problems of his own. And she was an American lady.

"Lady?" he said, leaning toward her, careful not to touch her, for that would have been impertinent and above his station. "Lady?" he repeated. Her sapphire eyes swiveled uncomprehendingly toward him. He could tell she was waiting for him to say what she should do next and he sighed again. "You must stay here with the other refugee American ladies," he said, taking five dollars from the secret pocket under his smock and putting it in her lap. "Good-bye, lady," he called, hoisting his straw pannier onto his shoulder, but she did not answer.

He and the child walked a few yards, then he turned to look at her. A big tear slid down her cheek. He stared doubtfully at her. The tears spilling from her eyes were big and shiny as crystals and there was an air of utter loneliness about her that struck a painful chord in his memory.

He walked back again and said, "All this time you not cry, and now you cry. Why?"

She shook her head. The big crystal tears flowed even faster, like a long-dry river after rain. "I thought you were my friend," she whispered desolately, "and now you are leaving me."

"It is not possible to be friends. I am a lowly Celestial, a poor Chinese, and you"—he looked at her cheap dress, her shawl, her rough boots—"you are a lady."

She rubbed her eyes with her fists, trying to stem the tears, and he noticed the blue shadows beneath her eyes, the fragile pallor of her skin and the frailty of her narrow wrists. His heart stung with pity for her, but he knew he must leave her with her own kind.

The boy waiting at his side tugged at his trouser leg and began to cry too. He patted his head soothingly, still watching the girl.

"I would rather be your friend," she sighed.

He considered the matter carefully, aware that her eyes never left his face. "It will be very difficult," he said finally.

"Nothing can be more difficult than what I have already suffered."

Her voice rang with bitterness and Lai Tsin nodded. "Then let us go," he said, shouldering his straw pannier and taking the boy by the hand.

She scrambled to her feet and fell in step beside him, and somehow he knew that if he had said "We shall walk to the ends of the earth together," she would have gone with him. It was their fate.

***

After a mile or so he stopped to buy food at a makeshift roadside stall, taking money from the secret pocket under his smock to pay for it. He handed over fifteen cents, carefully replacing the few notes left and then he carried the hot soup and slabs of buttered bread to where she was sitting on a clump of fallen stones. The boy was on her lap and he had his arms around her neck. The gods had performed a miracle. She was smiling.

"Eat," Lai Tsin said, pressing the tin mug into her hand. "You must get strong."

He watched as she sipped the soup, closing her eyes and savoring it, thinking worriedly of the five dollars left in his pocket. It was all he had in the world. His precious book from the Chinese credit showed one hundred and three dollars and twenty cents in his name, but the money must surely have burned with the rest of San Francisco. He sighed. He had won that money gambling at mah-jongg; it was all he had from his past and it was to have been his stake in the future. It was very bad joss, but still, he was alive and unharmed.

There was a new pink glow to her cheeks as they walked on, her step was firmer and she took the child's hand, smiling down at him as he trotted to keep up. People turned to stare angrily after them and Lai Tsin knew they did not approve of the Western woman with the Chinese man. He realized they would not accept them together at the refugee camps in the park and he kept his eyes open for a shelter. They passed another stall by the road selling small canvas tents. "How much?" he asked. The man looked at him consideringly. "Ten bucks to Celestials," he said contemptuously, "and cheap at that price."

Lai Tsin turned away, aware of the man's angry speculative eyes following them as they walked down the road. It was getting dark and he knew he must find shelter soon. His eyes darted this way and that as they marched on. The boy grew tired and he picked him up. Just as darkness fell he saw the place. It was all that was left of a row of artisans' cottages and it had been sliced down the middle as cleanly as if by a knife. The walls of the upper rooms had fallen in but downstairs looked intact. The door was gone and he walked in and looked around. Checkered gingham curtains flapped at the glassless window and a wooden table with bulbous legs lay half-buried beneath a layer of grit. There was a black horsehair sofa in front of the fire grate and a heavy oak dresser stood upright with a row of dusty plates that had somehow survived unbroken. He inspected the ceiling carefully; there were a few big cracks but it seemed safe enough. It would do for the night.