Blue Moon (33 page)

Frightened by my limited resources and dismal prospects, I walked a few blocks east and took a room on Alexander Street. The house, long broken into a rabbit warren of small rooms, smelled of grease, stale food and sweat. However, my new landlady, a women in her forties, was spiffy in her dress. Her hair colouring was from a bottle, but her lipstick and makeup were of the genteel variety. Of medium height and an olive complexion, she did not look like she had come down in the world.

“Take no account of the debris,” Mrs. Skeffington announced a trifle grandly. “I am about to rid myself of some of the undesirables. A refined woman like yourself has nothing to fear. Within a day or two, an entirely new species of tenant will occupy these premises. People like yourself.”

I wasn't sure where she was going to find such people, but I was exhausted and needed to sleep before collecting myself and perhaps finding other accommodation. Two weeks later I learned that my landlady had appeared on Alexander Street only the day before me. Recently widowed, she was a full-figured woman with magenta hair, creamy white skin and clear blue eyes. In contrast to her Amazonian girth, she carried herself in a delicate, ballet-like way. Emma, I was soon to discover, was a woman of extremes.

The house was the only legacy her slum landlord husband had left when he died suddenly. I was to be a member of a new dispensation. By and large, Emma—who had once been “on the game” but had reformed herself—was a woman of her word, although it took her over a month to build her new Jerusalem.

For the moment, I had a bed, a chest of drawers, and a washstand. My new home wasn't even as nice as what I was used to at P4W, but at
least I could come and go as I pleased. A very new feeling, positively revolutionary—and I took advantage of that freedom. Early the next day, I toured the neighbourhood. The New Station Cafe was Chinese and pristine clean. The Chili Bar, around the corner from Vi's Steak House, catered to blacks and was open twenty-fours a day. (Two weeks later, I heard Mahalia Jackson sing there.) The other nearby black establishment was Harlem Nocturne. West of the Broadway Hotel was the White Lunch, a cafeteria with huge, broad windows looking into the street. There were chairs with steam-bent backs and steel-based tables with tin tops that you couldn't move. People lived there. They would get a cup of coffee and sit and sit and sit.

The language of my new streets I soon discovered was deeply imaginative: “blocks” were the wristwatches stolen off hapless tourists who happened to stray on to Hastings; “banana toes” were shoes; “bennies,” Benzedrine. There was even “street poetry,” strange words rhymed together in a stew of words; this genre was created by inmates in the British Columbia penal system and became a secret language among them once they returned to civilian life. Then there were the various conmen who worked the streets: “wangies,” beggars who sold shoelaces, “timbers,” who sold pencils, and the “blinkies” who had lost one or both eyes. These were at the higher end of this class system. Less elevated were the “grease tails,” “jungle buzzards,” and the “yeggs,” the vagrants who didn't even pretend to any kind of genuine claim on the sympathies of the passers-by from whom they asked assistance.

There were many others. Plain and simple rubby-dubs. Failed prospectors reduced to mining the last glint of fool's gold in a bottle of rum. Crippled choker men from the interior. These were streets of broken dreams and criminal idleness. During my first stroll that afternoon, I also saw men and women dealing drugs and scoring tricks. The junkies congregated around Viaduct Drugs, in many ways the parish church. There were pawn shops, cinemas (all of which advertised midnight movies), a gay bar called The New Fountain and its brother establishment, Hastings Steam Bath. In comparison to Vancouver, Hamilton had been a very staid place. I was certain my parole officer would caution me against living in such a spot.

Although I had not given much thought to it, I had somehow imagined that person as someone out of the movies, perhaps a tough-guy
outside, sentimental man inside kind of person. Drew Smith defied all expectations. Almost seven feet tall in an era when basketball was not a big-time sport, his body was tubular in construction but stretched itself to resemble the letter S. His head and shoulder formed the top, his chest then sank inwards, his stomach stretched outwards whereupon his hips began an inward descent culminating in his sandal-clad feet that formed a perfect parallel line with his head and upper torso. Smith's hair resembled a very disorderly robin's nest, his clothing best described as tatty. He was not an authority figure. And he did not attempt to be one.

“Evelyn, I have heard many good things about you from Mrs. White. One of her best girls ever, she claims.” He gestured for me to take a seat. He smiled, making no attempt to conceal missing and black-covered teeth. “I understand I do not have to worry about you. Have been assured you have no intention of becoming a working girl.”

“I don't intend to become a street-walker or any kind of prostitute.”

“Exactly. Am very relieved. That's where your troubles began.”

“I'm well aware of that. You don't have to worry about my reverting to type.”

“Perfect. And you don't mind Skid Row?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not at all. I live three doors down from you.” He grinned: “Bet you didn't know that?” On reflection, I could have guessed. “No. My major concern is that you settle in on the West Coast. We're kind of different here, you know, from people back east. Don't give ourselves all your airs and graces.”

“That's a relief.”

He smiled. “We take people as they come. Have you ever read Malcolm Lowry? He died a few years back.”

“I've meant to.”

“No real need to, I suppose. He was a pal of mine. Settled here for a while. Out in Dollarton. The things he got up to. Once he was out walking with his wife. Right around here. They got into a fight. He took off. Disappeared down a street. Later that night, in the pouring rain, she ran him to ground. He'd taken refuge in a whorehouse, across the street from where you are. He'd sold his clothes for liquor and had only his shorts left. She climbed into bed with him to keep him warm. The next morning, the wife threatened
the owner of the house, who had sold all of Malcolm's things: 'Get him some clothes or I'm calling the police.' A few minutes later the couple was back out on the street. Malcolm was wearing a suit with more moth holes than wool; the shoes they gave him were four sizes too big. He didn't care. All he wanted was a glass of beer! Needed his next fix.” Perhaps thinking his anecdote not very edifying, he changed subjects. “Have you thought about what kind of job you want?”

“I suspect waitressing is all I'll be able to get. If I tell people who I really am, I don't imagine any respectable employer will want me.”

“Not necessarily so. What kind of a job would you like? In a library?”

“That would be perfect.”

“Have to start small. The public library on Robson is advertising for stackers, people who put the books back on the shelves. You would probably enjoy that environment.” I agreed with him. He gave me the name of the librarian in charge of hiring at that branch, told me to tell the truth about my identity, but he suggested I might wish to create a false name for all other purposes. He even volunteered to obtain a social security card for me under any identity I assumed.

After the streetcar deposited me in front of the Robson Street Library about an hour later, I became confused. There seemed to be two libraries side-by-side. Then, I noticed one was a bookstore. What a strange thing to do, I thought. Imagine opening a bookstore next to a library. Intrigued by the apparent folly, I decided to inspect Duthie Books, the name indicated by the sign in the window. The place was bustling, the books arranged in attractive juxtapositions on tables, and five or six readers had hunched themselves against the wall, browsing as if the place were an extension of the library. The person in charge was a busy-as-a-bee man who seemed quite unperturbed by his non-paying guests. I asked him if he had a copy of
East Lynn.

“That tear-jerker! Why would a sensible woman like yourself waste her time with a book like that?”

I smiled a little embarrassingly. “I know, I know. But it has its moments, even though they are overly sentimental.”

“Are you a deeply emotional woman, given to tears at frequent, inconvenient moments?” This was said in the most genial and friendly of ways.

“No, not exactly how I would describe myself. A feeling reader.”

“The best kind. Unfortunately, I do not have a copy of the classic you seek. I'm sure you'll find it next door.”

“Yes. I'm heading that way.” Not terribly sure of myself but now very curious, I decided to ask why the bookstore was located next to a library.

“The best possible place for a bookstore. I've been here almost ten years now, and, despite appearances, I've been thriving. I was a publisher's representative for years, always wanted to own a bookstore, these premises became available, and I decided to set up shop. The real readers go to libraries, I told myself, but they'll come to me for the books they want to own. Real readers have to own books. That's my philosophy. I've had a few hiccups but basically everything's gone well. Now, there's a new revolution. Paperbacks.” He pointed to the back of the store, where I could see two or three workmen excavating the basement. “I'm going to open a paperback-only bookstore there in a week's time.” Then, he switched subjects. “Are you a librarian, a writer perhaps?”

“I know a lot about building a library, but I have no professional qualifications. I was hoping to get a job next-door as a stacker.”

“As a stacker? You seem a bit too refined for that kind of back-breaking work. Why don't you come here? Take a job at Duthie's? I need someone to help in the new section. By the way, I'm Bill Duthie.”

I asked if we might retire to his office. “I haven't got much of one,” he observed, as he pointed to a little hole in a nearby wall. We retreated there, and I made a full confession of my identity. He had read all about Evelyn Dick, but he was fairly certain that few people in British Columbia knew about the crimes and the trials. Then, he informed me: “I'm an excellent judge of character. Have gotten where I am through that. I have no hesitation in hiring you, but I think you need a new name. Should we put our heads together on that one?” Actually, he invented my new name on the spot. “You have a regal bearing and red hair. What about Elizabeth for a first name. One of my favourite writers is Walter Delamere, the poet and children's writer. Delamere has a very classy sound to it. What about Elizabeth Delamere?” And so my new self finally had a name.

Emma Skeffington turned out to be a trusted ally. No one in Skid Row cared who I was she informed me, but, like Drew Smith, she advised me it would behoove me to live under an assumed name. “It's the reporters you have to be careful of,” she added. “They'll do you in. No need to attract that kind of notice.” And so I became known as Elizabeth to everyone. Never Betty or Liz or Libby.

If used properly, a name can be a precious gift, a signifier of one's aspirations. In allowing myself to be called Elizabeth, I was telling myself to assume a regal aspect, to act as if I were a person of worth. Sometimes the actress becomes the person she is portraying. I wanted my new name to clothe me in a whole new identity.

Even then I knew I was going to have a lonely existence. I decided to set myself apart, never to be vulnerable again to the kind of meddling that had ruined my life. To many—then and now—I seemed distant and remote. I didn't necessarily want it that way; it had to be so. On occasion, I would let my guard down, but I did not wish to be destroyed by the past. Sometimes isolation is the only defence worth pursuing.

“Vancouver is a pretty girl who uses the wrong makeup. She's ripe, overdeveloped. A lot of men want to explore her curves. If she's ruined, they could care less.” That was Emma's analysis of the civic history of my new neighbourhood. Bringing her metaphors closer to home, she added: “Older women—such as ourselves—know the wages of sin first-hand. By nature, we are pessimists. We also know how to survive.” Perfectly aware of the importance of style as well as substance, my landlady—an admirer of Oscar Wilde—was supremely wise in the squiffy ways of the world. Under her tutelage, I became cautiously optimistic. Perhaps this was a place into which I could fit, live the quiet life that I felt fortune and fate owed me. I didn't have to be overly compliant, but I had to be exceedingly resourceful.

At work, I had many details to master. I had to learn to deal with publishers' representatives, the distraught authors who visited the shop to discover their books were not on the shelves, and the customers who craved help in their selection of books. Bill claimed I was exceedingly gracious to everyone, but I suspect he found me a bit frosty. I was always polite, almost always cordial, and many times very friendly. But anyone who felt I kept a large portion of myself in reserve was correct. I was not a person to wear her emotions on her sleeves. To many, the windowless basement rooms on Robson Street would have been a source of depression. To me, the work space was miraculous. It may have been a little like a prison, but I knew that every day I descended into that chamber I would be able to ascend again a few hours later, at lunchtime or at the end of the workday.

One of my first customers was a large, cumbersomely moving mountain of a woman perfectly attired in an elegant, tailored suit that would have done Queen Mary proud. With that monarch, she shared the same peachy complexion obtained by a masterly understanding of how to combine powders and rouges. Virtually identical slightly
curled white hair and small, recessed but penetrating blue eyes. This person wore glasses rather than a pince-nez, but I was tempted to curtsy when she headed in my direction. She's going to be very starchy, I thought to myself. And indeed she was.