Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [150]
But the work was all done now. All that was left to do was fix up the sail and stow their kit on board, and as the spring sunshine became a little warmer each day, and the days grew longer, they could hear the distant rumble of avalanches in the mountains and the gurgle of melting snow.
Mostly everyone who had finished their boat tended to spend their days now sitting on the shore, idly watching the dark green lake water visible through the ice as they whittled another paddle or oar. Someone had joked a few days earlier about the rush to the goldfields being called a ‘stampede’. To all of them such a name was a joke, for it had been quite the opposite so far. It had been a slow, painful trudge, a three-month trial of endurance. There were no pot-bellies on any of the men now, their bodies were lean and muscular, and their gaunt faces, thick beards and long hair were all proof that they were no longer greenhorns. They smirked with pride as they spoke of those who had given up and gone home. There was a bond between them because of all the hardships and obstacles they’d overcome.
The women still had no time to sit on the shore. For them there were clothes to wash and mend, food to be prepared, letters to be written and dozens of other small jobs to be done which would make their men’s lives more comfortable. But Beth took time off to watch the geese flying overhead, to study the carpets of flowers that appeared as the snow melted — mountain forget-me-nots, Dutchman’s breeches and wild bleeding hearts.
After living in an all-white, snow-filled world for so long, the colours that appeared as the snow melted seemed fantastically bright. Red mountains, dark green fir trees and the acid green of lichen and mosses vied with the pink, blue and yellow alpine flowers that carpeted the ground away from the squalor of the camp. The sparrows and robins were coming back, and often the sound of birdsong almost drowned out the sawing and hammering.
Sometimes Beth would go off with her fiddle, away from the constant noise of the camp, and play for herself, glad to be alone. One day she saw two baby bears frolicking in the sunshine beneath a big rock and she hid herself away to watch from a safe distance, feeling privileged that she’d seen them. Their mother soon returned to them, cuffing them playfully with her big paws, and the sight evoked memories of Molly back home and brought tears to Beth’s eyes.
It often struck her when she was entirely alone that she had no plans or even dreams for the future any more. Everyone else on the trail had the dream of gold; at night around the campfires they discussed what they’d spend it on, where they’d go next. But Beth seemed unable to think beyond the next day. There were many things she wanted — a real weatherproof house, a hot bath, a soft bed, fresh fruit, and to be able to put on a pretty dress and know it wouldn’t be soiled with mud in five minutes. She would like Theo to make love to her, for that had been impossible since they left Dyea, what with the cold, how dirty they were, and always having Sam and Jack so close. She also longed to see Molly and England again, but even that seemed so far away she couldn’t call it a plan.
She wondered what had happened to all the dreams she used to have. Of the house with a lovely garden. Of her wedding day, or a holiday by the seaside. She thought of them only occasionally now. Was that just because she’d already seen so much more than she could ever dream about? Or that she’d become disillusioned?
Theo often wove dreams about them living in a fancy apartment in New York, or in a grand mansion back in England. She would have liked to believe they might come true, but she couldn’t. Theo had won back the money he lost by Lake Lindemann, but then he’d lost it again. The reality was that this was how it would always be with him, never