LITMIR.BIZ

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I want to introduce you to someone else.”

      I hadn’t noticed that a Chinese boy was standing near the back of the shop. He bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, Master Theodore. I am Peter.”

      “Peter?” I asked, surprised.

      “My Chinese name is difficult for most white people to pronounce, so I have become Peter.”

      The boy was tall for his age, but his face was rounded with the plumpness young people often have, as I once had not so many years ago. His smile was enormous, and he spoke English better than any Chinese person I had ever met, except perhaps Sing Kee.

      “Peter is our new helper,” Pa said. “He’s Sing Kee’s nephew, and a very good worker. I have Mr. Moses’s word on that. We can do with an extra hand around here. Just sweeping the sawdust away and cutting enough firewood to keep the fire stoked is difficult when we have so much work to finish before Christmas.”

      “Helper?” I said. My mouth wasn’t cooperating today. I couldn’t seem to speak in complete sentences anymore.

      “Yes,” said Peter, bowing again in my direction. “I am only twelve, but I am a very hard worker, Master Theodore. You will see. And while I work I shall listen to you and your father speak. From your conversations I shall improve my English.”

      “Your English is excellent,” I said, finally recovering my senses. “You have almost no accent, either, though if you listen too hard to my father, you may find yourself acquiring one. His Scottish accent is still as thick as porridge.”

      “Nae, ‘tis not,” said my father indignantly.

      Quickly I changed the subject. “How did you learn to speak English so well, Peter?”

      “My uncle, Sing Kee, began to teach me when I was very small. Mr. Moses also teach me. For two years I help him in barbershop, sweep floor, run errands, and learn many English words.”

      “I’m sure you did, Peter,” Pa said. “Though many of them are probably not fit to be repeated. Some of Mr. Moses’s customers have rough mouths.”

      “Mr. Moses told me which words impolite,” Peter said seriously. “Only once did I use a bad one. It was the word—”

      “Why do you want to learn so much English, Peter?” I interrupted. “Most of your people manage with just a bare knowledge of our language.”

      “I was born in this country, sir. I live here. I need to know the language of my country.”

      “So you don’t plan on going back to China?” I asked. “I thought all Chinese dreamed of the day they could return to their homeland.”

      “This is my homeland,” Peter said simply.

      “Aye, and you being able to speak good English will also be a great help to your father,” Pa added.

      I no doubt looked puzzled, so Peter explained. “My father is Mr. Lee. He owns store in Chinatown. Many of his customers are white. He needs someone to speak to them so they can understand, and to understand them when they ask for merchandise. He says no one will cheat a man who speaks good English.”

      “I’m not sure about that,” Pa said. “I’ve known some customers whose English was excellent, but whose morals weren’t.”

      “Perhaps that is so, sir, but it is my father’s wish that I learn English well. One day I will work in his store, but he says I am still too young to handle money, so it better for now that I work where I can learn more English. So I first work for Mr. Moses and now for you, and I learn much.”

      “You certainly have learned a great deal,” I said, amazed.

       Six

      Peter learned more, much more. He was a quick study, and it seemed as if every day he came to work with a new word to try out on us, a question about English grammar, or something he didn’t understand.

      “Why do people say skin of teeth?” he asked one day. “Teeth do not have skin. Should they not say skin of gums?.”

      “Where did you hear that saying?” I asked.

      “From lady who say how she slipped on the stairs from the boardwalk and nearly slid under the wheels of the stagecoach coming down the road. ‘I escaped being crushed by the skin of my teeth,’ she said.”

      “It means a narrow escape,” I told him. “Something that nearly happened.”

      “So, because there is no skin on teeth, it means there is nothing—only luck—to stop the accident. I see. I think I see.”

      In spite of my misgivings Peter didn’t seem to be acquiring my father’s accent. Even though Pa had the same Scottish burr to his words as Jenny did, I found Pa’s accent harsh. But when Jenny spoke you could almost hear a gentle breeze sweeping across the heather of the Scottish Highlands.

      With Peter’s help Pa and I finished all our commissioned jobs well before Christmas, and I found time to attend Mrs. Fraser’s evening of song and poetry. Jenny had managed to put the twins to bed early that night, so she sat with me while we listened. The next week the Cariboo Glee Club, of which I was a member when I could find the time to practise, piled onto two sleighs and spent an evening travelling the Cariboo Road from Richfield to Marysville, sharing carols with everyone.

      Jenny was released from her duties that evening, and she accompanied me. She wore a blue wool hood lined with silk and carried a matching muff to keep her hands warm. But as we weary carollers returned to Barkerville, she complained that her hands were dreadfully cold. She offered them to me so I could feel how icy they were, and I took them in my own. Suddenly the stars seemed brighter and the cold wind vanished. I felt warm all over, and though I knew I was blushing, it was dark so I didn’t think anyone noticed.

      After Christmas, winter gripped us harder. The temperature dropped to well below zero, the wind howled, and it seemed that every day brought another foot of snow. Business in the carpentry shop was slow, and near the end of January my father decided to take some time off. “With you and Peter to handle things, I think I can take a wee rest,” he said. “The long walk to the carpentry shop each day has become difficult for me. My bones ache, as if the wind cuts right through me.”

      So I made the trip down the hill alone each morning, my scarf pulled tightly against my throat, my hands deep in my pockets, my nose reddening and dripping as winter slapped me in the face.

      I didn’t see much of Jenny after Christmas. She and the twins were confined to the shelter of the house during this bitter cold. In truth, not many people ventured out on the streets. And if they did, they hurried to finish their errands so they could return to the warmth of their own fires.

      But no matter when I arrived at the shop Peter was there before me. There was always a fire lit and a kettle hot, and he made me a cup of tea the moment I came in the door. Peter kept the shop immaculate, the floor clean, the piles of lumber neatly stacked, the cans of paints and varnishes organized, the glue pot full. I also found that I was enjoying his company, especially since I had so little work to do.

      “So,” he asked me one day, “you think my English is sufficient, sir?”

      “Peter, I’ve asked you over and over again to call me Ted, not sir. Try to do so.”

      He grinned. “So, Ted, how is my English coming?”

      “It’s excellent. I seldom hear you mispronounce a word or use faulty grammar. You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

      He looked unhappy. “Oh, I am sorry you think so.”

      “Why are you sorry you speak good English?”

      “Because my father thinks it is now time for me to go to work for him. He says I speak English so well that no Chinese person can understand me anymore, and that if I learn more long words, no English-speaking person will

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