The fire and the gold (4 page)

As they retreated along the street Melora glanced up at empty windows, wondering about people she knew. Not that she had many friends in this somewhat rundown neighborhood. Most of Mama's friends lived up on Nob Hill, or west of Van Ness.

Now, as the fire lines were pushed still farther back, a new exodus of refugees began streaming across their path up the hill. One woman fell into step beside Mrs. Forrest for a little while, carrying an empty bird cage.

"There's no more room in Union Square," the woman told them. "There're people swarming over every inch. But I wasn't staying. Looks like the fire may head that way before night."

She rushed on, the bird cage still clutched in her hands. A block farther along they came upon an old man sitting on a trunk out in the middle of the street. He was calmly strumming a banjo and singing:

When you hear dem bells go ding-ling-ling

All join 'round and sweetly sing

And when the verse am over

In the chorus all join in,

There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight....

Melora had to laugh and he caught her eye and waved.

"Just waiting for a cable car," he called. Then, with a glance at the quiet slot at his feet, "Might be a long wait."

Half a block later Melora glanced back to see that he had tucked his banjo under his arm and was dragging his trunk over cobblestones, pulling it by a rope through the handle.

Now and then a flock of frightened pigeons soared above them, seeking safety, even as human beings were seeking it.

On ahead the familiar sign of the bookshop of Gower & Ellis hung at a crazy angle, where the earthquake had jarred it. The glass show window of the shop had been shattered and a young man knelt in the window, gathering up volumes which had been stacked there for display.

Melora didn't know his last name, though she'd heard Mr. Gower call him Tony, but she remembered him with interest. The last time she had been in the bookstore with Mama she'd had an odd interchange with this young man. Mama had been rather annoyed about it. Melora had known Tony by sight, since this was the Cranbys' favorite bookshop. On this occasion he had done rather a skillful job of separating her from her mother, and when Mama had entered into a discussion with Mr. Gower, he had said a most astonishing thing. Melora remembered his words very well and had thought about his behavior more than once since that day. Though without the indignation Mama thought she should feel.

The young man had told her quite frankly that he'd been wanting to talk to her ever since he'd first seen her come into the store. He liked her taste in books, he said. Henry James, for instance—there was a writer! He was glad to see she didn't read that sentimental stuff her younger sister was so fond of. Apparently he had been observing the tastes of the whole family.

That was when Mama had discovered what was happening and hurried back to sweep Melora out from under the young book clerk's interested gaze. Melora had been curious about him ever since. He didn't in the least fit the pattern of the young men she knew and it might have been fun to talk to him.

Now it didn't seem strange to come opposite the shop window and find him kneeling in it, looking straight at her over the stack of books in his arms. His skin was rather dark and he had thick dark hair and eyes that were velvety brown under heavy lashes. Italian, probably, Mama had said, and "bold like those Italians so often are."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Forrest, Miss Cranby." Tony spoke as calmly as though he had fully expected them to turn up outside his window. "Rather a warm day for April."

Mrs. Forrest looked surprised and then laughed. "It is, indeed, and likely to be warmer. Is Mr. Gower planning to move his place of business?"

"I'm not sure," Tony said. "But it's possible that we may take a short leave of absence. For alterations. Oh, Miss Cranby—we have something for you. Something your grandmother, Mrs. Bonner, ordered. Won't you come in?"

Mrs. Forrest looked off in the direction of the fire uncertainly. "This is hardly the time—"

"Perhaps we could sit down for just a minute," Melora suggested.

At once Tony waved them into the shop and brought folding chairs. Mrs. Forrest said her feet were beginning to hurt and sat down gratefully. After all, she admitted, there was no immediate hurry and a rest would do them good.

Since electricity and gas had been turned off right after the earthquake, it was dark inside. Mr. Gower was working by the light of a single candle and Melora saw that he was packing books into a cardboard carton. He peered short-sightedly through his gold-rimmed glasses when Tony spoke to him, and came around a counter to greet them.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cranby, Mrs. Forrest," he said. "Tony is right about that order for a book. Mrs. Bonner asked us to get the red leather edition of Kingsley's The Water-Babies some time ago. It just came in yesterday. Hand it to her, Tony. Compliments of the house, Miss Cranby. Please give it to your grandmother." He tugged at his gray mustache with an air of vague gallantry.

Melora started to protest, but Mr. Gower waved his hands sadly. "These books are nothing but fuel now. And your grandmother has long been a valued customer. Please give it to her."

Melora took the small leather-bound volume from Tony. She remembered that Grandmother had ordered it for Alec, but reading The Water-Babies aloud to Alec didn't seem a very likely prospect at the moment. However, she could not refuse Mr. Gower's gesture.

A sharp command was barked at them suddenly from the doorway and Melora turned to see a soldier standing there.

"Hey, get that light out!" he shouted. "The mayor has ordered no lights. We've got fires enough to worry about."

Mr. Gower puffed out the candle and the blustery soldier disappeared.

Somewhat rested, Mrs. Forrest was ready to go on again. As Tony walked with them to the door, he noted the statue Melora carried.

"I see you set value on important things," he said. "Kwan Yin and The Water-Babies. Items worth saving in a fire."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Mrs. Forrest tartly. "Come along, Melora—we've still a lot of walking ahead of us."

She went out the door, but Tony spoke again before Melora could follow her. "Where are you going now, Melora Cranby?"

She paused in the doorway. "Our Chinese cook says the family has taken refuge in Lafayette Square. We'll look for them there."

"But doesn't your grandmother own a big house out that way?"

"Yes, on Washington Street, across from the square. I expect we'll go there eventually, though tenants are occupying it." She was aware of Mrs. Forrest waiting for her outside the door, but she stayed a moment longer. "Where do you live?" she asked him.

"Near the top of Russian Hill," Tony said. "Though my mother's family is on Telegraph Hill. We should be all right."

"I do hope so," Melora said. "Thank you for thinking of the book. I'd better go now—Mrs. Forrest is waiting for me."

"It wasn't the book alone I was thinking of," he said softly. "I'll see you again, Melora."

She rejoined Mrs. Forrest in some confusion. This young man left her with a pleasant sense of exhilaration. Knowing him better might be interesting. When would she see him again?

As she walked on at Mrs. Forrest's side, carrying Kwan Yin and the book, she found herself plagued by a desire to look back at the Gower & Ellis shop. She didn't give in to the urge until she was a good block away. Then she glanced over her shoulder. Tony knelt in the window again. He wasn't working at his task but staring after her with the frankest interest. When he saw her head turn he waved to her and she smiled and waved back.

Mrs. Forrest glanced at her appraisingly. "That's a bright young man—Tony Ellis—and I think he'll climb, if I know his type. I can't see him hidden forever in a bookshop. He's too flamboyant. I suspect he likes an audience, that one."

"Ellis?" Melora repeated in surprise. "You mean of Gower & Ellis? But I thought—that is, Mama said he was probably Italian."

"His father was John Ellis, Mr. Gower's partner. He died some years ago. I suppose Tony will own half the store one of these days—if there's any store left to own. So Mr. Gower must be trying to break him in. But he's Italian enough on his mother's side. That's what gives him the exotic touch. Quite a collection there—opera singers, restaurant owners, fishermen. Odd sort of marriage for his mother, with books on the other side. I wonder which branch Tony takes after. Come along, my dear, you're lagging a little."

Melora hurried her steps, but her thoughts were on Tony's background. It all sounded different and fascinating. So different from Quent, whose father was in insurance—a dull sort of business, as even Quent himself admitted—and whose mother was very "old" San Francisco.

Even in Chicago life had been enough different to make it great fun to set things down in her diary. She'd always loved to turn happenings into words. But at home there had often been days on end when nothing seemed worth recording. The sudden realization came to her that since this morning the whole face of existence had changed for all of them. She would hardly need to worry about the monotony of life for quite a while. Already there were a hundred things to write in her diary when she had it in her hands again. And one of them would be this odd meeting with Tony Ellis.

Before they reached Van Ness they had one other encounter. A grocery store keeper gestured at them from his doorway.

"Come along and help yourselves!" he invited. "It'll all burn anyway. Pick up what you can carry. Hurry, hurry!"

Along with others in the street, they dashed across and into the store. Burdened with book and statue, Melora couldn't manage many tins or packages, but she juggled four or five articles into her arms. A tin of peaches, a loaf of bread—the last in the shop—a tin of tomatoes, and one of string beans. All sensible things which she was sure Mrs. Forrest would approve. Then one little exotic item she couldn't resist—a small tin of caviar. She'd tasted it once at a luncheon at the Palace Hotel and had loved the strange, salty flavor. But she hid it under the other things, knowing caviar wasn't the best possible fare for refugees.

Mrs. Forrest hesitated no more than a moment. Then she pulled up her street skirt, loosened the waistband of her top underskirt and swished herself out of it. Into the voluminous skirt she piled as much foodstuff as she could carry, tied the skirt openings in knots and slung the improvised bag over her shoulder.

Melora bit her lips to keep from smiling. Mrs. Forrest, still wearing her big hat with the increasingly bedraggled feathers, and carrying the huge skirt-bag over her shoulder, made a strange picture indeed.

More and more now along the street they came upon pitiful heaps of belongings, either moved out of the houses and then abandoned when the occupants left, or dropped by the way because they grew too heavy to carry. Never, never, Melora thought, would she let Kwan Yin join their sad company.

Van Ness was a wide and dignified residential avenue of fine houses. Like Market Street, it might make a fire break if one was necessary. Considerable earthquake damage was evident in the buckled pavement, roof tiles cluttering the street and fences twisted awry.

They began to climb toward Lafayette Square, but as they came in sight of sloping, grassy banks and high walks, a new anxiety filled Melora. The square—it was a park really, covering several blocks—was black with people. There must be thousands up here—and how could she ever find her family in such a throng?

Children and dogs and cats were all intermingled. Here and there some lucky family had set up a tent for shelter against the coming chill of evening and the dampness that was inevitable.

Mrs. Forrest stopped helplessly at the foot of cement steps leading up through a comer of the square. She too seemed to find the crowd greater than she had expected. But as they stood there, looking upward, a sudden shout came from a grassy summit above and a small figure catapulted out from the crowd and tore down the steps toward them. It was Alec and he flung himself upon Melora, so that she had to pull Kwan Yin hastily out of his way. Book and tinned goods she dropped for the moment so that she could circle Alec's small body with one free arm. He was pudgy with sweaters, and one long black stocking was slipping from its garter.

He nuzzled his blond head into her shoulder like a young butting goat, expressing his delight boy-fashion.

"Grandmother said you'd find us!" he cried. "She said Mrs. Forrest would come across somehow and Sam would tell you where to find us. Cora thinks you'd stay in Oakland and Mama is sure you've been burned to a crisp. But Gran knew."

"As you can see, young man," Mrs. Forrest broke in, "we are sooty but unsinged. Now suppose you stop choking your sister and lead the way to your camp. My feet are killing me and this load is heavy."

An umbrella had been set up as partial protection from cinders and char, as well as from the wind, and Adelina Cranby lay upon a blanket with her head and shoulders under the umbrella. She did not move as Melora and Mrs. Forrest wound their way toward her between other "camps," stepping over outstretched legs and around strange assortments of possessions.

Melora saw that her mother's cheeks were white, instead of their usual rosy tint, and there was a streaking of tears in the soot smears on her face. To find her neat httle mother with a dirty face was almost as star-tUng as finding the city on fire. Mrs. Cranby's sunny pile of hair was hidden now beneath a gray veil tied under her chin, and she wore a long coat over shirtwaist and skirt. On the grass beside her sat Cora in similar dress, looking pretty in spite of disaster. She held a small green bottle of smelling salts and was regarding her mother anxiously. Grandmother Bonner was nowhere in sight.

Alec left Melora's side and ran ahead to drop on the grass beside his mother. "Mama, Melora's here! She hasn't gone and got burned up at all!"

Cora turned with a cry that was part laughter and part tears. What a pretty thing she was, Melora thought, as she often did when looking at Cora. Her hair, fluffing out from beneath the veil, was even fairer than Mama's and her eyes were as blue.