“Excuse me,” David said. He was leading Tillie now, moving slowly up the street, marveling at how much the town had grown. Just ahead, a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, was approaching. He saw that she was watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He doffed his hat. “Excuse me, miss. I’m looking for the home of Mister—Brother—John Draper. It used to be right here, but . . .” The house he was looking for had been converted to a shoemaker’s shop. He pulled a face. “This place has really changed since I was here last.”
She flashed him a quick look, blushed, and lowered her eyes again. “Brother Draper has moved.” She turned and pointed. “It’s the small cabin at the end of the next street over.”
He bowed slightly. “Thank you, miss. That’s a right pretty dress you have on today.”
Momentarily startled, she beamed, then did a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Brother Draper.”
He jerked forward. “You know me?”
Her cheeks were touched with pink now. “I remember you from school.”
He peered at her more closely. “Tell me your name.”
“Gwendolyn Watson, but everybody calls me Gwen.”
He snapped his fingers. “You sat in the front corner, next to Henry McGuire.”
“Yes!” Her joy was instantaneous. “I didn’t think you would remember me.”
“Hey,” he said, “how could I not? No boy, especially one who sat in the back corner, could ever forget a girl who got one hundred percent on every test Mrs. MacArthur ever gave.”
She ducked her chin. He climbed back up on Tillie, then raised a hand in farewell. “It has been a pleasure to meet you again, Gwen Watson. Not only are you pretty as a meadow full of flowers, but when you blush, you’re absolutely enchanting.”
Laughing as she flamed a bright scarlet, David nudged Tillie forward. If he were to come back to Coalville in another six years, he would bet that Gwendolyn Watson would still remember David Draper.
As he rode up to the small cabin at the end of the street, he was surprised to see a patch of grass in the front and a flowerpot on the porch. It was filled with geraniums and petunias and some other things he didn’t recognize. Flowers? His father was planting flowers?
He dismounted and wrapped Tillie’s reins around the hitching rail. But even as he did so, the door flew open and John Draper burst out. “David!”
“Hullo, Dad.”
“Wud ya look at ya! Ya cud knock me over wit a feather.”
David laughed as they embraced tightly for several seconds, neither speaking.
“It’s good to see you, Dad,” David said when they stepped back. “How are you?”
“Gud. Great, actually. Me ’ealth be better than Ah deserve, an’ the older Ah git, the wiser Ah becum.”
“An’ the more ’andsome too.” It felt so good to hear that accent again. “Ya still spek lek a Yorkshur Tyke, that be fur sure.”
“Aye, laddie. As they say, ya can tek a Tyke oot of Yorkshur, but ya canna ever be changin’ the pure an’ delightful way that a Yorkshur Tyke speks.”
David put an arm around him as they started into the house. “We’ve been nine years in America. Hasn’t being around all these Yanks taught you anything?”
“What Yanks?” his father shot back. “Ah’m foreman of me shift noow, an’ Ah ’ave only two Americans. Thare be three Germans, five Irish, half a dozen Welshmen, and one Italian, who speks very little English. ’Ow am Ah supposed ta be learnin’ ta spek bettur in that kind of cump’ny?”
“Question withdrawn,” David said with a chuckle.
His father gave him a searching look. “But ya, David, ya sound lek a bloomin’ Yank yurself. Yur mum dinna teach ya ta spek like that. Ya naw be furgittin’ yur Yorkshur roots, surely.”
David just shook his head. There was not much his father missed. “I think it was all that coaching Mum gave me when I was little. It gave me a quick ear, and I guess I just naturally start speking—speaking—like those around me.”
His father led the way into a small sitting room and motioned toward a chair. “Sit doon, Son.” David did so, but his father stayed standing, looking down at him. “It be so gud ta see ya, David. But why dinna ya write an’ tell me ya be cumin’?”
“Didn’t have time. I’ve been offered a job as a mail rider down in the southern part of the territory. I’m on my way there now. Because it’s this late, I probably won’t make it back up for conference in October, so I decided to swing up here on my way.”
“Did ya git me letter fur yur bur’day?”
“I did, Dad. Thank you. You never forget.”
“Yur mum would cum back and haunt me if Ah did. Yur bur’day be the most important day of the year ta ’er. Wasn’t sure whare ta send it, so Ah joost sent it ta the Salt Lake postmaster. Figured ’e wud be knowin’ whare ya be.”
“He did. I got it two days before my birthday. Thanks for remembering.”
He shook his head. “Twenty-two years old. Cahrn’t b’lieve it. It be six years noow since ya left Coalville. Whare the time be gone?” Then, realizing he was talking to himself, he asked, “So whare will ya be livin’?”
“Cedar City. My circuit includes half a dozen outlying settlements to the east. I don’t even know which ones yet.”
“So ya be changin’ yur employment yet agin.” It was not a question, nor did it carry any hint of criticism. “How many jobs that be since ya turned sixteen?” Not waiting for David to answer, he started ticking them off on his fingers. “After layin’ telegraph wire in the south, ya worked fur a time layin’ rails up in Idaho. That’s two. Then ya ran freight across Wyoming.”
“Yep, between Laramie and Denver. That’s three.”
“Then ya becum a mail rider between Salt Lake and Ely, Nevada. That’s four.”
“No, that was number five. You missed ranching.”
“Aw, that’s reet. Ya becum a cowboy up in . . . whare were it agin?”
“North of Laramie. I was there almost two years.” He turned and pointed out the window. “In fact, it was in Laramie that I got Tillie there. We rounded up a bunch of wild horses from up on the high plains. When we started breaking them, there was this one mare that turned out to be a real fighter. Ornery as a badger with ingrown toenails. Nobody could stick on her back. The foreman finally offered to give her to anyone who could tame her.” David grinned. “You know me and a challenge, Dad. Best horse I’ve ever had.”
His father went to the window. “Tillie, eh? That dunna sound lek a very fierce name ta me.”
David chortled at that. “Do you remember that place where we delivered coal the Monday after Mother died?”
“Of course. Down by Sheffield. Castle sumthin’ or other.”
“Tilburn Castle.”
“Yaw, that be it.”
“Do you remember the three girls we saw by the lake that day?” When John nodded, David went on, “Especially the oldest one, who was so disgusted at the sight of us coal-blackened Tykes?”
“Ah r’membur it well. Ya dinna lek her attitude one bit, did ya.”
“No,” he said shortly. The memory was still so clear in his mind that he felt his anger rise each time he thought of it. But then a smile stole in around the corners of his mouth. “I actually named the horse Lady Tilburn, but I just call her Tillie.”
His father slapped his hand against his leg. “Ya named yur ’orse after that gurl?”
David’s grin only broadened. “I did. I’ve been strongly tempted to write her a letter and tell her. Think she’d be honored?”
His father, still chuckling, shook his head. “Aw, Davee, me boy, ya be a real rascal sometimes. Tank ya fur cumin’ ta see this ole man of yurs.”
They fell silent, both enjoying the moment, then David continued. “So anyway, from there I went to the mail job, and now I’m just transferring routes down south, so you can’t really count this as a new job.”
“But ya be movin’ ’roond a lot, Son.”
“Yes, and coming up here today, I
realized something. Know what all of those jobs have in common? They’re all outdoors. No tunnels. No monkey heads. No coal tubs. I guess I got enough of that to last me for the rest of my life. I love the wide open spaces.”
“Aw,” John said, understanding now. “That be gud. Yur mum wud be reet prood.”
“What about you, Dad?”
“Ah be a miner, Son. Dunna know anythin’ else. Dunna even think aboot it anymore.”
“Why don’t you quit and come south with me? I’m tired of these winters up north here, freezing my smalls off every time I’m out on the road.”
His father’s face softened. “Aw, Ah ’aven’t ’eard underwear called ‘smalls’ in a long time. It be gud ta know ya ’aven’t completely stopped talkin’ like an Englishman.”
“Now, Dad,” he chided, “I talk just fine.”
“See what Ah mean. It naw even be Dahd anymore. Just Dad. Ya soond more lek a Yank than the Yanks themselves.” But he was smiling, and there was no sting to his words.
“Ya cum sooth wit me, Dahd, an’ Ah be spekin’ lek a Tyke at least once a week, joost ta mek ya feel at ’ome.”
“Aw, David,” he sighed, neatly sidestepping the request once again. “Duz it naw seem ta ya like England be another life?”
“It does.” He turned. “And speaking of another life, what’s with the flowers out front?”
To his amazement, his father actually blushed. “They be nuthin’.”
“Come on, Dad. You’re planting flowers now? I mean, I think they’re lovely and all that, but it certainly is not what I expected.”
David was just teasing him, but to his further surprise, his father was suddenly defensive. “It be ’er idee, naw mine.”
One eyebrow came up. “Oh? And who is her?”
“One of the ladies at church. She be determined Ah need sum color in me new digs.”
David sat back, holding in a smile. “Well, well, well.”
“Gwan!” his father snapped. “Ain’t nuthin’ lek that. She be nice e’nuff, but she canna tek naw fur an answer.”
“And what are you going to do if she wants to marry you and won’t take no for an answer, eh? Tell me that.”
His father lumbered to his feet, glowering at him. “Ya want sum supper, or wud ya prefur ta sleep in the shed an’ eat wit yur ’orse?”
David got up too, thoroughly enjoying his father’s discomfort. “I’ve got to unsaddle Tillie, but supper sounds good, Dad.”
“Tell ya what. Thare be beans an’ bread in the cupboard. Ya start supper an’ Ah’ll tek yur horse oot back an’ put ’er away.” He gave him a droll look. “Be an ’onor ta associate wit a real lady agin.”
Wednesday, August 14, 1878
They sat together on the porch in the last of the evening twilight. Being on the east end of town, the cabin was high enough that it overlooked the Weber River and the mountains beyond. Now, however, the only thing they could see in the valley were the lights of the town and a few scattered points of light beyond it.
It was a pleasant evening, and much of that was the pleasure David took in being here with his father again. He was glad he had decided to make this hundred-mile detour before heading south. It had been too long since they had spent time together.
“It really is a beautiful place,” he said, half to himself.
“Winter be kinda ruff,” came the answer, “but the summers be a joy.”
“I remember someone once telling me there wasn’t any winter in a coal mine.”
“Aye. That be true.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Son?”
“Are you still okay?”
“Meanin’, do Ah ’ave the black lung?”
“Exactly. You’ve been in the mines a long time.”
“Last time Ah be down in the Valley, ’ad a doctor check me oot. Sez ’e be ’earin’ a little rattle in me lungs, but naw ta worry aboot it. Ah be fine.”
“I was serious about you coming south with me, Dad. I’ve been thinking about maybe finding a little spread somewhere, getting some cows, maybe a few horses, and doing some ranching. You could retire and come down with me. Old as you’re getting, we could get you a rocking chair, and you could just sit on the porch and watch the sunset. Just like now.”
“Retire?” He feigned a deep wound. “Ah be only forty-seven. B’sides, what Ah be doin’ thare? Ya want me ta trade in me pick and shovel fur spurs an’ a lariat? Gwan.”
David had to laugh. He had to admit that such an image was a bit of a stretch. “You could be the cook.” He nudged him. “Maybe plant us some flowers along the walk.”
“Ya want yur lugholes boxed, Sonny,” he growled. “Ya ain’t gonna tempt me by bein’ cheeky.” Then he went on the offensive. “Are ya tellin’ me ya be reddy to settle doon, David Draper?”
“Well . . . uh . . . yeah, I guess that is what I’m saying. Sooner or later.”
“That’s what Ah thought. Naw, tank ya.” Then he grew more serious. “Actually, Ah be learnin’ ta be a blaster noow. Means anuther ten dollars a month.”
That took David by surprise. “You’re using black powder down there?”
“Yaw. Got those Welshmen ta teach me ’ow it be done. Ah tell ya, David, it be mooch easier than crawlin’ inta them monkey ’oles an’ cutting away at the coal face wit a pick.”
“I know that, Dad, but that’s dangerous stuff. You be careful.”
“Ah be real gud noow,” he replied. “Dun’t ya be worryin’ aboot yur pa.”
“Well,” David said, “I’m glad things are good here, but I still think it would be good for you to get out of the mine. I’d love to be together, even if it’s not for another year or two.”
“When ya write an’ tell me ya’ve foond sum sweet lassie an’ be settlin’ doon an’ givin’ me sum gran’kids, Ah be cumin’ the next day.”
“Sounds to me like I may not be the first one in this family to marry,” he quipped.
So fast that he didn’t have time to react, his father smacked him a good one on the shoulder.
“Ouch!”
“Ain’t got no plans fur marryin’,” his father growled.
David looked more closely at him. “Why not, Dad? You’re still young and in good health. Mum wouldn’t mind. In fact, I think she would encourage you to—”
He was shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“Yur mum is the only woman Ah ever luved, an’ ever will.” He gave David a sidelong look. “Ah be sealed ta ’er now, ya know.”
“Sealed? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. Joost git it outta yur ’ead that Ah be marryin’ sumone else.” Then, before David could protest further, he decided to change the subject. “Do ya still go ta church?”
“I . . .” He blew out his breath. “Not that much since I left. As a mail rider, I’m not very often in town on Sundays.”
“An’ that’s awl yur gonna say?”
Not sure what had brought this on, he decided to joke his way out of it. “Well, I do attend every social and dance they have. Does that count for anything?”
There was a grunt, and his father looked away, which only caused David’s irritation to flare. “I’m a good Mormon, Dad. I don’t smoke or drink or chew or chase women.” He flashed a quick grin. “Mum actually gets the credit for most of that. Said she’d pull me out of the mine if I started any of that.” He was getting really peeved now. Why was it they had to have this conversation every time they were together? “Look, Dad, I know that you’ve gotten into this whole Mormon thing, and if that makes you feel better about what we did in Liverpool, good for you. But I’m—”
The hardness that swept across his father’s face stopped him short. “I . . . I didn’t mean it that way, Dad, I was just—”
“Yaw, ya did.” He took a breath, clearly fuming. “It be one thing ta be cheeky when we be funnin’ ’roond, David, but dunna be mekin’ fun of things that ya dunna un’erstand.”
David finally
nodded and sat back. “Sorry.”
“Ya dunna feel any obligation, do ya?”
“To what?”
“Dunna be obtuse, boy. It does naw becum ya.”
“All right.” As usual, his father couldn’t leave it alone. “Do I feel obligated to attend church because we took passage on a Church ship under false pretenses? No, I don’t. They knew we came to that meeting in Liverpool because we wanted to go to America. They were so eager to get us baptized, they didn’t care what we believed.”
“An’ that’s yur way of mekin’ yurself feel gud aboot bein’ deceitful?”
“How often do you go to church, Dad?”
“Ev’ry Sunday.”
“Good for you. And has nine years of church attendance been enough to erase your guilt?”
His father stiffened, and David instantly regretted his words. He put up his hands. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Naw, let’s talk aboot this.”
“Come on, Dad. All we do is fight.”
“Thare be sumthin’ that ya still dunna un’erstand, Son, an’ Ah guess that be me own fault.” His eyes were challenging now. “If’n ya dunna want ta ’ear this, then joost git up an’ walk away. But it be sumthin’ ya need ta know.”
“Dad, come on. You know I was just popping off.”
John went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Ya be reet aboot one thing, Son. Ah was deeply ashamed that night. What we were doin’ was wrong. It was deceitful.” He gave him a long, searching look. “Do ya even r’member what Brother Miller talked aboot that night?”
David shook his head. “All I was thinking about was that we were going to America.” He looked away. “And about how terrible I felt that Mum wouldn’t be going with us.”
“Ah was thinkin’ a lot aboot yur muther too. Brother Miller spoke on what ’e called the plan of salvation. ’E spoke of the Savior an’ the resurrection. Said ’ow Jesus makes it possible fur us ta be reunited wit our luved ones agin.” He was lost now in the remembrance. “’E said that we be part of our ’Eavenly Father’s family, an’ that ’Eavenly Father meks it possible fur us ta be wit our fam’lies agin after we die. That our relationship does naw end wit this life.”
David was staring at him. “He said all that?” That didn’t sound even vaguely familiar.