Two-Gun & Sun (10 page)

I leaned forward, reading. Yes, how did three isles in the northwest of Europe come to control so much of the world? Ah, India, and all its riches.

It was time. I put the book down and squatted beside the tub and plunged the day's worth of cotton strips below the surface. The water bloomed brilliant between my fingers. I added soap and took up my teacher's yardstick to stir the tubful, then turned off the taps. I left it to soak. Later I'd rinse them and hang the strips over the edge of the tub to dry. I was in a hurry to get back to the book.

I dried my hands on my nightdress, and continued scanning the pages on the colonies. Australia and Canada would be useless to Britain without the wealth of India. Africa and the Mayan Peninsula, less important.

A few pages on, several remarkable lines likening Britain's treatment of other nations to the farmer rearing silkworms. When he's done with them, they are destroyed by fire or thrown to the fish.

Set on fire. I sat back, the words sparking the smoke of a memory and forcing me to sit forward again to push it away. I continued reading, more determined than ever to interview Sun. Eventually, hunger beckoned and I closed the book. It would be easy enough to buy a week's worth of food at Parker's. After all, tinned goods were long-lasting. But these trips were an excuse to have company, a conversation. And after a day of confinement, I needed them as much as food.

*

Night had fallen, that blackest of black hours here.

Parker stood by his door, arms folded, expectant.

About to lock up, he said. Haven't seen you all day.

I was washing my hair.

Thought I might see you 'cause you weren't in on Sunday, either, or yesterday.

He turned and headed inside.

I followed him to the counter and said, I went to the restaurant on Sunday.

I heard there was a commotion.

There was. And just an old man—

Mr. George, he said. First name Leonard.

I knew his name already, from Silver, but right now my throat swelled so that I couldn't speak. Him crumpled on the stairs, pink as a baby bird. A dark stream flowing from under his shoulder blades.

Parker nodded toward the door. You'll have noticed how crooked the road is in spots.

The shift in subject pulled me from my thoughts. I'd like to believe he was being considerate, but Parker's line of thinking had leapt crazily from the first time we met.

I still couldn't trust my voice and so I dipped my head to indicate he should continue.

The holes, he said. They're going to fill them in and straighten the road at some point. The authorities might give us streetlamps, then.

He was referring to our very first conversation. I felt I could trust my voice, now, and I asked him, Why is it called
Zero
Avenue?

He shook his head as though I were a sorry creature to ask such a question. The holes, he said. They look like zeroes.

It was true. They did.

I wonder, I said, returning to the subject of Mr. George, what the authorities will say was the cause of death.

Whatever they say, he said, they'll take their time about it. Ever know any kind of government, civic or otherwise, to be expedient?

You know, I said, I haven't seen a graveyard.

Isn't one. Not anymore. Used to be right where the pithead sits. They were digging six feet down when this one time they struck coal. That was the end of the graveyard.

They left the coffins there?

Oh, no. Shipped 'em all out. Some to Vancouver, Seattle. Some back to the old country. That's where old Mr. George'll go.

Tension migrated up my spine to my head, and I rubbed it. Uncle had been sent home to us, not at our request, after all, but as a result of their requirement.

I see you've hired your printer, Parker added.

Another shift in subject.

I think so, I replied. Vincent Cruz. You know him?

He Chinese?

I nodded.

Doesn't sound Chinese.

I nodded again.

Nope, he replied, don't know him.

He says it will be some time before we get the press running.

That'll cost you.

He seems perfectly decent—well, I'm probably paying him more than he gets in Lousetown.

I smiled weakly. Probably? I knew I was.

Parker studied me with those pale blue eyes, stained swampish by the visor.

Your uncle struggled to keep himself in ink and paper, he said. He'd shut the business down now and then to save on costs. When things were slow.

In summer, I said. He used to come out to visit us, then. But I can't very well do that. I just got here.

He was a frugal man, that's how he did it.

I gave Parker my list, and waited for him to continue.

As he pulled items from the shelves, he said, Your uncle used a bicycle to get around. No motorcycle for him.

No?

Said they looked evil, had the evil eye.

I thought Parker was Cyclops himself with that one big green shade in the middle of his forehead. But I asked, Doesn't anyone here drive cars?

The holes! he snapped.

I nodded quickly. Of course.

Only motorcycles and bicycles can maneuver around them. In your back shed somewhere, if you know how to ride one.

He opened a bag and began filling it.

I spent my childhood on a bicycle, I told him.

Anything else? He held out the bag, stuffed with a small packet of tea, another of flour, a pound of lard.

Sockeye, I said. Two tins.

I left his shop and crossed the blackened grass to the back shed. My fingers groped the edge of the doorjamb for the switch, and a light bulb dangling by a cord crackled to life. There it was, hanging from the wall. I could use a bicycle to get around, to find more news.

I dropped my bag of goods and lifted it down, rolled it back and forth on the shed floor to test it. My brothers and I had stripped down many a bicycle, cleaned fenders and restrung chains, pumped air into flattened tires. These tires were fine but the chain needed tightening.

I left the bag where it landed, and searched the shed for tools.

This morning I heard my printer's voice downstairs, calling out, Hello!

By the time I had unjammed the doorknob and hammered down the stairs, pausing only long enough to score through September 6 on the calendar, he was in his smock and rolling the sleeves.

I rolled up my sleeves as well and then pinned back my hair. I followed him to the stacks of shelves at the side of the pressroom.

I've been reading your book, I said. He made a good case for staying out of the war.

Vincent kicked open a stepladder and turned his cap backwards before answering.

They didn't listen.

I know.

I hesitated for a moment and then added, I lost a brother in that war. He died fighting for someone else's country. I've never even been there. Neither had he, not since he was an infant.

And yet he joined up, he said.

He shouldn't have. None of them should have. But I was just a girl to them and they ignored me.

Vincent launched himself up the rungs of the ladder, and I called up after him, I liked the part about the silkworms.

His back was still turned to me, but I heard him say, Me, too.

I took a long step forward to see what he was doing up there.

I'll be right back, I said. I've left the kettle boiling.

And I raced up the stairs.

When I came back, he had lowered a small machine onto the top of the ladder. It was the same one he had told me about the other day.

You want to print menus?

He grinned.

Be a while before we get the big press going. We could do newssheets for now.

Newssheets. At once I saw them shooting out one after the other from the press, emblazoned with
The Black Mountain Bullet
. While a newssheet wouldn't be the same as a newspaper of several pages, I was itching to print the stories I encountered every day, anxious to convince the bank that I could do the job, the newssheets first and a newspaper to follow.

Grab that end, he said. We can set it up on the table.

We lifted it down. The machine lay under a thick layer of dust, a flat-bed press about the size of two pillowcases laid end to end, with a wooden handle connected to a large wheel. Vincent said it was a basic, hand-cranked machine that would run with some cleaning.

I set to work, oiling and scraping, pulling hard on the wheel until at last I got the roller gliding back and forth.

He tore a narrow strip of paper, dragged out what looked like a large metal ruler from an upper shelf, and pulled open a wooden drawer of slots, each full of lead bits.

It's type, he told me. See?

I was at his elbow, watching his hands. He dropped the lead pieces into what he called a composing stick, part of it shaped like a ruler, pushing them into place. These lines of type would be fitted into a frame he called a chase, and when it was filled, I'd have enough for one page and that page would be my first newssheet.

The newspaper itself won't be much larger, anyway, he said. Maybe four of these pages, a sheet of two pages double-sided and folded in half.

Four? I had pictured several more.

Vincent swivelled and scanned the room. I don't see a linotype machine, he said.

I asked what that was and he said it was a machine that sets the type automatically. The operator punches the keys much as you might on a typewriter, and the lead pieces fall into place.

It's a big piece of equipment, the size of some presses. No one running a newspaper larger than eight pages would do it without a linotype.

Then we'll do seven.

He pulled off his cap and looked up at the ceiling as he scratched his head with the brim, then tugged it back on.

Six, or eight, he said. Even numbers, only. You'll see. Right now, just a line to show you how it works.

What does it say? I leaned in close.

The line was full of backwards letters, the sentence itself, he explained, running back to front.

He took a bit of ink onto his thumb, ran it over the line, then took my slip of paper and dropped it over the line.

Rub your hand against it, he said. Press hard.

I did as he instructed. Then he peeled the strip from the line of type:

The Bullet's New Publisher Is Lila Sinclair

Every printer must do as he had just done, finger each piece of type for font and placement, mouthing the letters and words for correct order. But this was my name he had thumbed into place, my new occupation he had composed and assembled. I couldn't think straight, and continued to stare at the slip of paper, while he, as though nothing of any significance had just occurred, returned to the press, whistling,
How
'
Ya Gonna Keep
'
Em Down on the Farm—

*

The next morning I made tea while I scrawled onto a card:

September 7th

Dearest Robbie,

I have not heard from you in some time and hope that you are well in Australia. I miss our fights with Father! (Not really, but I do miss you.) I have let the boys know that I am settling in at Uncle's, at last. This is not the prettiest place but it is full of news. I cansend you a copy of the first newssheet we produce.We plan to practice on one-sided sheets inpreparation of the first full edition of the newspaper …

I scanned the lines as I stood. As much as I tried not to elaborate it still might have said too much. The place isn't pretty, and I allowed myself the word
we,
twice, though Robbie, of all of them, would be sympathetic to my situation, having moved even farther away. I added a few pleasantries, and signed it.

Parker had wrapped my package of tea in an old copy of
The Bugle
. As the kettle boiled I had a look at my competition. Parker was right. It wasn't much of a newspaper. It was the size of a menu and was full of numbers, mining statistics and mineral prices. I was relieved to know my printing machine could accommodate sheets larger than this. He must use a table-top model, as I would for the smaller newssheets. Anything larger would be a waste of machinery.

Downstairs, I found another envelope on the shelf under the counter, and then, because I was there, I went through the drawers of the desk I had unearthed. Broken pencils, a dried up pot of ink, but in the second drawer a silver cigarette case and matching flask. I shook the flask, unscrewed it, tipped my head back for the one drop that was left. I could empty some of my own bottle into it, though, for carrying around. The silver case held rows of little white cigarettes, and I held them up to my nose and inhaled. I'd always wanted to perfect smoking. The only times I tried, I did nothing but choke. A couple of times behind the barn when we were drinking, and once in town with Bess, who stole her father's cigarettes and could blow smoke rings by age ten. I slid both case and flask into my pockets, addressed the envelope, then left for the post office.

Ed was leaning his elbows on the counter, looking more barman than postmaster.

No tea, I quipped, and handed him the envelope. Any mail for me?

Ed crouched, swung a box onto the counter, and rooted through it.

One was a postcard showing Baker Street back home, all brick and stone and those red-striped awnings. I flipped it over and recognized Pat's hand by the left slant of the writing:

We are all right. Hope you are getting on all right, too.Your ever-loving brothers. P&P

It made me smile. Pat was never much for words.

I watched as Ed continued to sort. Behind him, on the wall, was a telephone box. Instead of another letter to the boys I could arrange a call to them, but they would have to cross two fields over to the neighbour's to take it. Besides, making a call meant answering questions more easily avoided on paper. Such as, Are you lonely? Are you homesick? No, it would have to be a letter, a short one letting them know about the newssheets, too.

The pile of mail continued to grow beside the box until Ed scooped it up and dropped it into my arms. That's it, he said.