Over breakfast, an unappetizing mush of soggy oatmeal, I made the mistake of mentioning the photographer’s visit scheduled for that evening.
“How grand, Mother,” Angus exclaimed as his eyes lit up.
Mr. Mann mumbled into his bowl about unnecessary fripperies. Mrs. Mann hesitated in the act of pouring my coffee and said, somewhat wistfully, “I’d enjoy having my photograph taken.”
Mr. Mann almost sprayed oatmeal across the table.
“I’ll come,” Angus said, “and watch.”
I couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough to keep him away, and so I changed the subject. “No fresh milk today, Mrs. Mann?”
“None to be found. You’ll have to make do with this.” She pushed an opened can toward me.
Dawson produced gold. Gold and nothing else. No farms, thus no fresh vegetables, eggs, or milk. Everything had to be carried in over the Pass or shipped the long way around up the Arctic Ocean to St. Michael in Alaska and up the Yukon River. A man had arrived a short while ago with a cow in tow, and I’d ordered Mrs. Mann to spare no expense in ensuring I had fresh milk for my coffee and Angus had milk to lavish on his oatmeal. No doubt the demand had exceeded the supply, and we were once again reduced to consuming the canned stuff.
“Keep trying,” I said. “An egg would be nice also.” My friend Mouse O’Brien had gone to the outrageous extravagance of serving an egg to each of the guests at his recent wedding. That had come close to decimating the egg supply for the entire territory.
“Do you think this photographer fellow would teach me some of what he knows, Mother?” Angus asked.
“First of all, it’s a lady. A Miss Jennings.”
“A lady!” Mrs. Mann gasped. “How extraordinary. The things ladies do these days.”
Mr. Mann’s expression indicated that he had the same thoughts as his wife. Although not in quite so approving a manner.
“Photography isn’t something you can simply start to do, Angus. Not like writing.” Angus had taken on employment as assistant to one Miss Martha Witherspoon, who fancied herself an author. Miss Witherspoon had soon married Mouse O’Brien, at the aforementioned wedding, and her career as a scribe — and thus Angus’s — abruptly ended. “All of that equipment, the camera, the chemicals, the studio. Plus I understand developing an image onto paper once it’s been captured onto the plate is rather a complicated undertaking.”
“Still,” he said, “I’d like to watch. Are the ladies excited about having their picture taken, Mother?”
Excited wasn’t the word I’d choose.
Irene had closed the show at midnight as she always does, doing a slow provocative dance while unravelling yards and yards of brightly coloured chiffon from her body to drift gently to the floor behind her. No one ever leaves early; they’re all hoping that one day the last length of cloth will accidently come loose. Not that they’d see much if it did. Underneath she wore her regular, none-too-clean shift and many-times mended stockings.
Still, the men continue to live in hope.
Which is a good thing — none of them would be here, in the Klondike, if not for foolish hope.
I’d slipped into the dressing room while Irene was taking her bows and collecting flowers and gold nuggets tossed onto the stage at her lumpy, misshapen feet.
“Attention, ladies,” I called, clapping my hands together as if I were headmistress in a girls’ school. The acrid sent of sweat, cheap perfume heavily applied, burning kerosene, stage paint, and clothes badly in need of the attentions of a good laundress filled the small room. Garments, ranging from Maxie’s mud-spattered bloomers to common-or-garden homespun street dresses to a pink feather boa to Irene’s gown that wouldn’t be out of place at a regimental ball in London, were draped across every possible surface. The women, in various stages of undress, stopped chattering and turned to face me. I waited a moment, not only for Irene to arrive, bearing her collection of flowers and (most importantly) gold nuggets, but to take the measure of them all.
Some of the girls looked frightened, as if I were about to announce they were being let go. Betsy, who I tolerated at the best of times, tried to disappear behind a substantially more robust woman. A few regarded me with wide-eyed interest, expecting perhaps I would announce wage increases all around. (As if!)
The newest dancer went by the name of Colleen. She was unusually demure and shy for a Dawson stage performer. But she was young and pretty and could hold a tune and thus I’d hired her in place of a girl who’d gotten herself married to a man who didn’t approve of his wife working in a dance hall. Colleen kept close to the walls, wanting to take the measure of me, I suspected, before putting herself forward.
When Irene had dumped her loot onto a table, stopped fussing, and also waited for me to proceed, I did so.
“Tomorrow evening, we will have a very special opportunity. Mr. Walker and I have decided it would be terribly modern to advertise this establishment through photography.”
A buzz began at the back of the room. “What’d she say?” one of the older women bellowed. She was instantly shushed. I folded my hands in front of me and waited for the noise to die down.
I could hear the men shoving benches against the walls, clearing room for the dancing, and the musicians taking their place on the stage. A man shouted, another one laughed, and one said, “What’s keepin’ ’em?” The interior walls of the Savoy are none too thick. In the boxes above, a foot began to stomp, and others joined in. The floors and ceilings of the Savoy are none too thick either, and I hoped the boxes and their patrons would not be making a sudden, unexpected descent into the ladies’ dressing room.
“We have therefore,” I continued, “arranged for a photographer to come to the Savoy tomorrow evening. She will be taking a photograph of those who wish to participate. No one will be compelled to do so.” I’d eat the fake flowers on my hat if anyone of them declined.
The women burst into excited chatter. I lifted my hand, and waited for the hullabaloo to die down. “I believe I am still speaking.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Pardon, Mrs. MacGillivray,” they muttered. I knew, from listening at closed doors, they called me Mrs. MacPruneFace behind my back. If any one of them said that to my face, they’d be seeking employment elsewhere.
“Be ready tomorrow promptly at seven o’clock. Anyone arriving late will not be allowed in. If you would like to wear your stage costumes for the photograph, that would be ideal. But be sure and look … suitable for the quality of clientele we wish to attract.”
Maxie put up her hand.
“Yes?”
“C’n I bring my sister, Mrs. Mac? She’s real pretty.”
“My name is Mrs. MacGillivray. I’d suggest you remember that in future. You cannot bring your sister, as she is not in my employ. Any other questions?”
They all began speaking at once.
“No?” I said. “Very good. Carry on.”
I swept out of the room, carried forth on a wave of high-pitched chatter and almost visible excitement.
I had no doubt the shops would be emptied of rouge tomorrow.
“Excited?” I said in answer to Angus’s question over the breakfast table. “Perhaps a small bit.”
Angus arrived at the Savoy at six-thirty. I couldn’t help but notice he’d put on his cleanest shirt, scrubbed his face until it shone, and added a touch of oil to his neatly combed hair. He was accompanied by Mrs. Mann, matronly presentable in her church dress and hat, and Mr. Mann who had discarded his shopkeeper’s apron and checked shirt for a coat and tie. His hair and moustache were so freshly trimmed that tiny pieces of hair clung to his face.
I’d ordered the dancers to be in position by seven o’clock. At least half of them were here already. Hair had been washed and arranged, hats puffed, rouge applied in excessive amounts, corsets pulled in a few extra inches, highly impractical shoes donned. I almost choked on the scent emanating from Betsy. Did she think the photograph would pick up her perfume if it were of sufficient strength?
The women looked like a flock of South American birds. They were followed, as the parrots had no doubt also been, by scavengers looking for droppings. Where women dressed to impress, men wanted to be impressed.
Not yet seven o’clock and the front room of the Savoy was almost full to bursting.
I chased the women off, telling them to wait in the dance hall. Mrs. Mann was examining the room with wide interested eyes while her husband tried to block her view of the nudes hanging behind the bar.
I’d said nothing to the male employees about the photograph, but clearly word had spread, and they’d also gone to some trouble to clean themselves up. Faces were washed, moustaches trimmed, teeth cleaned, hands scrubbed. Joe Hamilton appeared to be wearing a borrowed jacket, so large was it across the shoulders. Not-Murray had a diamond stick pin through his tie, a gold watch chain across his chest, and a large shiny buckle attached to his belt. Murray was resplendent in a brand-new pair of suspenders.
Richard Sterling walked in. He, I was pleased to see, was not wearing his full dress uniform, but he also had had a haircut. His jacket had been dusted off, and his boots shone with fresh polish. I felt a tiny fission of disappointment. Was Richard also so eager for his photograph to be taken? Or did he want to impress the photographer? Young Constable McAllen accompanied him.
Ray Walker had made no effort to dress up. He stood behind the bar, in the unusual situation of a full house yet no one clamouring to be served, a rag in one hand, shaking his head.
Aside from Ray, only one other employee of the Savoy was in their regular attire — me. I would hope I am ready at any time to be recorded for posterity. That, however, will not be allowed to happen. I had no intention of standing anywhere in range of Miss Jennings’ cursed instrument.
I was herding the girls to the back and ordering Joe Hamilton to keep the customers from following them, when the door swung open once again.
Irene Davidson stood there. She placed her right hand on the door frame and paused, drawing everyone’s attention. The sunlight streaming in from behind traced an aura around her body. Her black-and-scarlet gown clung to her generous curves. I swear I could hear men suck in their breath and Ray Walker swallow from across the room.
Irene stepped forward and the spell was broken.
Until now I’d had no intention of actually paying for any photographs. Miss Jennings had said she’d take a picture of the dancers for free as a way of drumming up individual business. Now, I reconsidered. Not for nothing was Lady Irénée the most popular dance hall girl in Dawson. No one would call her beautiful. She was too hefty to be fashionable, and she’d learned her manners (and her accent) on a farm in the Midwest. But she had an aura about her almost as visible as that cast momentarily by the sun, and men were drawn to her as a moth to a flame — if I may be allowed to mix my metaphors.
If that appeal would translate to a photograph, I might pay for a portrait of Irene myself. Something we could use on a poster to advertise the Savoy.
Although, I reflected as a three-hundred-pound man trod on my toe, we didn’t really need to advertise at all. Somehow, they kept on coming.
I gave the man a sniff, glared down the length of my nose, and he slunk away, muttering fulsome apologies.
If he’d bumped me on purpose, I’d have him thrown out. That’s if I could find a bartender or bouncer to do so. Ray, chest puffed up, back straight, was escorting Irene into the back. His men had rushed to the doors heading into the dance hall as if the place had caught fire.
Fortunately there was still one person with the presence of mind to observe what was going on. I saw Barney’s hand slide toward the glass of the fellow standing beside him, whose attention was consumed by Irene’s entrance.
“Barney,” I bellowed, “don’t you dare!”
Not at all bothered by being caught in the act, he gave me a crooked grin and shrugged. His hand returned to his own (empty) glass. “Snookem Jim’s a good pal of mine,” he said to his bar-mate, fingering his glass. “I can tell you some stories, friend.”
Ray came back, his men reluctantly following, and I went into the dance hall to supervise the ladies.
The girls looked like exotic birds, but they chattered like a flock of crows.
“Do you want me to pose like this, Mrs. MacGillivray?” said Maxie, thrusting her bosom forth in an uncanny resemblance to the bow of a ship.
“A scene from Macbeth perhaps?” Ellie, who played the Thane of Cawdor to Irene’s MacDuff in the dramatic climax, assumed a swordsman’s stance.
“I think something more ladylike,” said Betsy, who possessed only a passing familiarity with the concept at the best of times. Placing her hands under her chin she fluttered her eyelashes.
The girls practiced their poses singly or huddled together discussing what would be best.
Colleen, the new young dancer, climbed the stage and stood there alone. Smack dab in centre front. Smart woman, I thought. She’d left the others to fuss and quietly staked out the most likely spot.
Of the men, only Angus, Mr. Mann, and Richard Sterling were permitted to stay. Even Constable McAllen had been banished to the saloon. Not that I expected anything improper to be conducted, but I feared the picture would never get taken in the crush of males either anxious to see their favourite girl pose or to get into the picture themselves. Perhaps both.
Eleanor Jennings arrived promptly at seven o’clock, carrying a large wooden case. She wore an unadorned skirt and blouse in shades of green with a long white apron tied tightly around her small waist. I suspected the apron served to keep her clothes protected from the photography equipment and harsh chemicals. She was not wearing a hat. Her fair hair was tightly plaited and secured at the back into a circle the size of a dinner plate. She wore no jewellery save for a thin gold hoop through each ear. Angus and Richard Sterling rushed to assist her. She gave Richard a soft smile before turning her attention to my son. She held out a small gloved hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I know who you are. Angus, right?”
He blushed and stammered and shifted his feet. I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “Do you think you could clear some room for me, right here?” She gestured to the benches lined up in front of the stage awaiting the commencement of the show. “So I can move about.”
Angus rushed to do her bidding. Mr. Mann and Richard gave him a hand.
She approached me. “Mrs. MacGillivray, let me thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
“My pleasure.”
Miss Jennings turned to the wide-eyed women watching us. She lifted her voice to be heard at the back. “Ladies, it’s very nice of you to come to work early to accommodate me. First, if I may introduce myself, I am Miss Eleanor Jennings of Chicago and I am here to open a photography studio. If you’d like to come to my premises tomorrow to discuss what options are available and make an appointment, here is my card. Mr. MacGillivray, would you be so kind?”
Angus almost fell over his excessively large feet leaping across a couple of scattered benches to get to her. With a radiant smile she handed him a stack of cards. He began passing them out. The girls snatched them out of his hand as though they were tickets to fame and fortune.
Miss Jennings studied the room. “The light is very poor in here. Is there another room we can use?”
I thought of the crush of men outside. “Not if we want to be able to move.”
“It will have to suffice then.”
Angus finished handing out the cards. “Can you fetch more lamps, young man?” she asked him.
He dashed off, accompanied by Mrs. Mann.
“Now,” Miss Jennings continued, “I know you have a show to put on, so I’ll be quick about it.” She began unpacking the case. The tripod came out first. She unfolded and secured the legs, and placed them on the floor. The camera was next, a square brown box with a bronze tube fastened to the front and a back resembling an accordion. That device was attached to the tripod. Next came a flat square package wrapped in cardboard, which she placed on the bench closest to her, and a black cloth. Some of the dancers pressed in closer to get a better look. Angus and Mrs. Mann returned, bringing three more kerosene lamps. Miss Jennings directed them to place the lamps on the stage.
When they were lit, she placed her hands on her hips and studied the room. “Insufficient. Illumination is the essence of photography. I’ll have to create light of my own.” She dove into her box and came up with two glass vials and a metal tray with a long handle.
“What’s that?” Angus asked.
“Magnesium and a mixture of antimony sulphide and potassium chlorate,” she explained. “When combined and lit, it creates a strong flash of light, so as to illuminate a scene that does not have adequate lighting. It can be dangerous in untrained hands, young man, so keep your distance. Now, if you girls will gather on the stage. Mrs. MacGillivray, stand in the front.”
“No, thank you. I will remain here and supervise the placement of the ladies.”
She looked at me with something approaching surprise and then said, “Very well. Miss Davidson, stand in the centre, beside that lady right there.” She pointed to Colleen. “The rest of you gather around.”
I hadn’t seen a rush like that since the last time we’d opened the Savoy doors after the enforced Sunday closing. The girls bolted for the stage, pushing and shoving. Maxie stuck an elbow in Betsy’s side, and Betsy almost backhanded her. Ruby took a tumble when Janie shoved her off the stairs, saving herself only by grabbing Ellie’s sleeve, which came away with a shriek of ripping fabric. Ellie screeched and pushed Ruby in the chest. Ruby fell to the floor, landing on her wide, well-padded bottom with a howl of indignation.
“Ladies, ladies,” I said, “a bit of decorum please. We do have guests. Ruby, stop complaining. If you are hurt, then you may go home. Immediately. Otherwise get up.” Angus held out his hand and helped the dancer lumber to her feet. She rubbed her rear end with both hands as she climbed onto the stage. She tried to wiggle in front of Betsy, who’d secured a prime spot, but Betsy stomped hard on her instep. Ruby gave her a glare that would freeze a gambler’s icy heart but retreated.
I rolled my eyes once again. I had a difficult night ahead of me: the resentment and fighting would carry into the performance.
“Are people always so … eager to have their photograph taken,” I asked Miss Jennings who stood in front of the stage, head cocked to one side.
“No broken bones or blood drawn,” she said making a box of her hands and peering through it. “I’d consider this positively calm. I assume you want Miss Davidson front and centre.”
“I do.” I was paying Irene the astronomical sum of two hundred dollars a week. I intended to get every penny of my money’s worth.
I wasn’t surprised that for someone who’d only recently arrived in town, Miss Jennings was remarkably well informed. A woman on her own, trying to succeed in business? No one knew better than I the importance of knowing everyone and everything.
Miss Jennings directed the girls as if she were putting on a tableau. I suppose photography is much like a tableau. Everyone must be positioned exactly right to make the most favourable impression. Irene stood, as ordered, in the centre, tall and proud. She stretched her neck, lifted her head, shifted slightly to one side, hip thrust forward. The girls were fanned out around her, the prettiest and best dressed in front, the others arranged by height and weight to make a pleasing composition. Betsy and Maxie, grumbling heartily, were sent to the back. Colleen remained in the second-best position at Irene’s right.
Miss Jennings stood silently for several minutes studying the scene. All fell quiet, the only sound being the muffled hubbub from the gambling room on the other side of the closed doors. The girls began to shift, and she snapped at them. “Miss Davidson, if you please, fluff your skirts a bit more. Thank you. You there, in the blue. Stand where I told you to.” Maxie slunk back into place, accompanied by Betsy’s chuckles.
Angus hovered at Miss Jennings’ elbow. Richard Sterling came to stand beside me, well behind the range of the camera. “You don’t want to be in the photograph, Fiona?”
“I’m not the attraction here,” I said with a considerable amount of modesty. “We wish to attract custom because of the quality of our dancers and performers.”
“Is that the only reason?”
I looked at him. “Of course it is. What are you implying?”
“Just asking.”
I busied myself checking my watch.
Miss Jennings opened the cardboard box and took out a square of glass, about five inches by seven. This she placed into a slot in the centre of the camera.
Angus edged closer.
“Would you like to look?” she asked.
He nodded, and she gestured for him to proceed. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back so as not to disturb anything, bent down, and peered into the back of the box.
“But it’s upside down!”
She laughed. “That it is. Upside down and the colours are reversed. What we call a negative image.”
Miss Jennings unstoppered her two glass vials and poured a tiny amount of powder onto a piece of paper, taking great care putting the cork back in each bottle in turn and instructing Angus to place them on a bench a good distance away. She took the metal tray with the long (exceedingly long) handle and poured the powder mixture onto the surface. An instrument, looking somewhat like a miniature gun, was attached to the tray, which she held high over her head with her right hand. Angus came close and she ordered him to stand back.
She tossed the black cloth across her head and shoulders and bent forward. She made some minor adjustments to the little wheels at the back of the instrument. “Now everyone, stand perfectly still. There will be a noise and a flash of light, but it’s important that you don’t move.” The girls froze. Ellie clamped her eyes firmly shut. With her right hand, Miss Jennings fiddled with the metal tray, and at the exact moment the powder exploded, she pulled the cap off the bronze eye at the front of the instrument with her left. We held our breath. The cap was replaced and the sudden bright light faded, leaving a good deal of smoke behind. “Don’t move,” she shouted, “I’ll take one more.” She repeated the process. The glass plate was flipped to the other side, the powder was lit, the cap removed, held for less than a second, and then replaced.
Miss Jennings straightened up and tossed off the black cloth. Blond tendrils escaped from her mussed coil of hair. Her gloves were streaked gray with traces of the powder. Grey smoke curled though the room and tickled my throat. A couple of the girls coughed. “All done,” she announced.
The women burst into excited babble.
“When will we be able to see it?”
“C’n I have my picture taken?”
“Will you be making copies so I can send one to my mother?”
I clapped my hands. “Ladies, ladies. We have a show to put on in precisely fifteen minutes.” All through the photography session, I’d been aware that the crowd was building in the gambling hall and the saloon. I’d told Ray to tell the musicians and Roland to remain outside until we were finished. They’d be late getting set up, but I figured the audience would forgive us this once. “Off you go now, backstage. If you’re not in costume, you had best get to it.”
They scampered off until only Irene remained. She descended the stage as the Queen might come down off her throne. The silk of her gown murmured as it moved. “Thank you, Miss Jennings. I hope we did you justice.”
Miss Jennings stopped fiddling with her equipment. The edges of her mouth turned up. “Miss Davidson, how could it not, with you in the centre.”
Oh, dear, I thought.
“I’d love to do a private portrait. Free of charge, if you’d be willing to pose for me.”
“That would be great. When?”
“Why don’t you stop by my studio sometime tomorrow morning, and we can discuss the details. You have my card?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Irene drifted away.
I gritted my teeth.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Angus said. “I can carry your things if you like.”
“That would be wonderful, young man, thank you. It gets heavy sometimes.” Miss Jennings turned to me. “Mrs. MacGillivray, I’ll send word once I’ve processed the photographs. I’m sure you’ll love them.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said. I wanted to send Angus to open the doors, but he was intent on studying Miss Jennings’ camera.
I’d have to do it myself.
“That was amazing, Fiona,” Mrs. Mann said as she and her husband followed me out. “Jürgen, we must arrange to have Miss Jennings take a photograph of us.”
He muttered something in German that might have been “over my dead body.”
We were almost trampled in the rush as men streamed through the doors.