Oliver's Twist Read Free

joints, and private “clubs” like the Moose Lodge and the Freemasons’. Thenarrow main drag was bordered by dozens of such enterprises, all housed in tight-fitting wood-frame buildings.
    As a crowded seaport, Rupert was a smaller and more northerly version of Marseilles and attracted equally eccentric characters. There was one-legged Dominic, owner of the steam bath. He never wore anything but a black suit, the right leg pinned up at the hip. Every Christmas for High Mass, he bought a new black suit, along with a fresh pair of long underwear. Having one leg, he pointed out, saved in shoe leather. The Italian shoe repairman made and maintained Dominic’s single custom boot.
    Ricardo the Hook had lost a hand in the war. I was an appreciative audience for the repertoire of tricks he performed with a mean-looking, curved steel appendage, always sporting a speared cigarette. Twenty-Dollar Dolly White had launched her business during the war years. She bought a dilapidated row house and imported a collection of young ladies from Vancouver. Nearby, in the short alley that became famous locally as “The Line,” Dolly’s own refurbished establishment was known as the “White House,” an elegant stopping place for American officers. A model of the stereotypical hooker with a heart of gold, she took an interest in my welfare and was always a reassuring presence.
    Then there was Eric, the railway conductor, who for years juggled two fiancées living at opposite ends of his run from Rupert to Prince George. The arrangement fell apart when fate brought the two women together in a coach car. Comparing notes on the men they expected to marry, they discovered they were betrothed to the same fellow. Eric was horrified to see the two women step off the train together and, in unison, throwtheir engagement rings at him. Eric spent hours on his knees trying to retrieve the diamonds from a snowdrift.
    My habitual route took me through an underpass below street level where a dank cellar housed the “Dungeon,” a pool hall where men played for money and the local sharks emptied the pockets of out-of-towners. Popeye, who ran the nearby cigar store, always welcomed me with a free soft drink.
    There really is no such thing as the “common people,” but I suppose that is how these uncommon individuals could be described. They were the companions of my daily life in those years, and I was treated like one of them—always with kindness and never abuse. Strangers could be generous and caring, it seemed, while those closer to home couldn’t always be trusted.
    A dog bite eventually brought about another sharp detour in my life. At the age of eight, I was attacked while playing with a group of chums. Nearly sixty years later I still have the scars on my arm. The family who owned the dog was very concerned, and probably fearful that my father might bring a lawsuit. Evidently some kind of a deal was struck, because soon after I found myself moving in with the dog’s owners, “Brick” and Mabel Skinner. I stayed with them for four years, the dog and I maintaining an uneasy truce.
    The Skinners lived in a one-bedroom house on Borden Street, perched at the end of a long steep pathway on the side of the mountain. Here was family life at last, but theirs was a loveless house without much happiness. It was understood that my place in it was temporary.
    Brick was a fire plug of a man and, fittingly, the fire chief down at the government docks. He was gruff and sometimes short-tempered, but not mean-spirited. His wife, Mabel, whowas rigid, unyielding, and without a trace of compassion, became my tormentor. They had an adopted son my age, Jimmy, a cheerful kid who squinted badly through wire-rimmed glasses. It angered Mabel that Jimmy always seemed to be led by me, and she never stopped reminding me that Jimmy would one day be a success while I would never amount to anything. I recall one hurtful