“Oh, look!” Sarah pointed. There was the Wake Up Jake Restaurant, one of the more solid and well-kept premises. She bounced Jacob on her knee. “You’re going to meet Grandpa very soon.”
Farther down the street were Martha’s Sweet Shoppe, the colonial assay office, Blanc Photo Studio, the imposing Billy Barker Saloon, and the Theatre Royal.
At the far end, the signs began to change, and I realized they were a mixture of English and Chinese and offered all manner of things. The banner outside Kwong Lee and Co. proclaimed, ALL KINDS OF CHINESE MERCHANDISE INCLUDING OPIUM AND DRY GOODS. I wondered what had brought these people to this remote spot all the way from China.
Our horses picked up their pace as we approached our final destination, the BC Express office, a crude affair across from a gravel pit, where a small crowd had gathered. Once the coach came to a bobbing stop, the door was flung open and we emerged from its confines. I saw Sarah’s father right away. He was slighter than I had imagined, no doubt due to the poor treatment he received as a child slave. His thick black hair was interwoven with strands of grey, but I recognized his smile as Sarah’s. In a flash, Sarah and Jacob were in his arms, and her father clung to them both as if, having found each other again, he never wanted to ever let go.
My heart ached at the sight before me at the realization that I would never share in an embrace like this one.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Sarah said finally, pulling back from her father and gesturing for me to step close. “This is Charlotte. Charlotte, this is my father, Henry Roy.”
Mr. Roy’s eyes were gentle and moist, and his firm handshake belied the grey streaks in his hair. “You are the dear woman who saved my daughter’s life and gave me my grandson. I’m in your debt. I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “Please—you will come and stay in my home with us. It’s the very least I can do.”
“Are you quite sure? I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”
“An awful lickpenny you would think me if I pointed you in the direction of the hotel,” he said. “Consider it settled. You’ll stay with us.”
In truth, it was a relief. After all this time, I didn’t want to be parted from Sarah, and the gift of accommodation would surely help me make a better start here.
Louis handed down the luggage and placed ours in a small pushcart for the walk home. He whipped off his cap as he brought it to us. We thanked him, and Mr. Roy tried to offer a tip, but he waved it away.
“Miss Roy?” he said, hustling after us. “I—ah, ah—was wondering if, I mean.” A red flush coloured his neck. “I’d like to come calling next Sunday afternoon. Perhaps we could take a walk together?”
Sarah smiled and looked over at her father for a moment, who seemed delighted by the young dimpled lad in front of him. “I’d like that,” she answered politely.
Louis’s face broke out into a wide grin, then he nodded and headed back to the stage. He looked back one more time, and I waved, but my hand hung in the air as Jack Harris, who stood waiting for his satchel, tipped his wide-brimmed hat to me. I quickly turned back to Sarah.
As we shuffled along the boardwalk towards the Wake Up Jake, most of the locals we passed nodded pleasantly to us. Mr. Roy was clearly well-known and a respected part of the community here, a far cry from Victoria, where I had witnessed Sarah being treated differently because of the colour of her skin.
The restaurant itself was a clean and wholesome place with ten wooden tables set with red-and-white-checked cloths and glowing coal oil lanterns. White gathered curtains accented the paned-glass windows, and a warm potbelly stove gave the room a welcoming warmth.
“You have a lovely spot here, Mr. Roy,” I said. “How did the restaurant get its name?”
“I bought the place from old Jake Franklin. He built it and ran it all by himself for years. He was always so exhausted by his long hours and hard work that the patrons had to yell, ‘Wake up, Jake,’ whenever they entered, and the name stuck.”
I wondered if it was a tall story, and Sarah and I laughed and shook our heads.
“The living quarters are back through here,” Mr. Roy said. “Follow me.”
We passed through the kitchen, which was quite modern with a large, woodburning cooking stove and porcelain sinks, and then down a hallway to the living quarters. I noticed another, separate room off to the side. Glancing in, I realized it was a cardroom with five round poker tables, each covered in green felt and boasting a Tiffany lamp as a centrepiece on the table. It must have been a challenge bringing those delicate lamps with their coloured glass shades and stylish green fringes all the way here by wagon.
The sitting room was sparsely furnished, but there was a comfortable-looking settee, two standing lamps, and a highly polished wood table crafted from what had to have been a massive cedar tree. My heart leapt at the sight of a handmade bookcase full of leather-bound books.
As we entered the dining room, Sarah let out a gasp. “Father, this is beautiful.”
A pine dining room table was set for tea with robin’s-egg blue Wedgwood china on a brilliant gold damask cloth. My mouth watered at the sight of plates of raisin scones and raspberry-jam tarts. I had come halfway around the world to end up in a place that truly felt like home.
“This is too much,” I said to Mr. Roy.
“I wanted to go to a little trouble for you, after your long journey,” he replied.
