The landlord greeted me with a nod of recognition and brought a glass of ginger beer to my table. I wasn't brazen enough yet to order myself a real beer or a glass of wine. I sat in the corner, trying to make the glass of ginger beer last for a long time, and looked around the room. Even at this hour it was quite smoky and my eyes started to smart. Two women were sitting at the table beside me, and as I turned to glance at them I was horrified to see that one of them was smoking a cigar! It was all I could do not to stare rudely. I wished I had positioned myself across the room, where I could have observed them without having to swivel around. My second brief glance revealed that the lady cigar smoker also had her black hair cropped short to her cheeks and was wearing what looked like a man's embroidered silk smoking jacket.
I was just digesting these interesting facts when there was a minor commotion in the kitchen and a pale young man wearing an apron was pushed out into the middle of the floor. He stood there looking sheepish and embarrassed. I wondered what sin he could have committed when the landlord came up behind him, clamped a big hand on his shoulder and said, “Here he is then. Come to say good-bye. Young Johnny Masefield's last night here before he goes home to England. Have a drink on the house, then, Johnny lad.”
The young man gave a hesitant smile and requested a half-pint of bitter.
“Bitter be damned, boy. Bitter's no good for a sendoff. Here. A tot of Irish whiskey for you—the best money can buy! You'll need it, going back to that heathen country where it rains all the bloody time.”
The young man grinned, took a swallow, choked, then drained the rest of the glass to the applause of all the customers.
“What are you going to be doing with yourself in England then, Johnny?” a voice demanded from across the room.
“I'll tell you what he's going to be doing with himself,” the landlord exclaimed before Johnny could speak.‘Thinks he's going to try his hand at poetry.‘Nobody ever got rich writing poems, boy,’ I told him, but no, he still wants to try it.”
“I've seen some of his poems and they're quite good,” a male voice added. “Good luck to you, Johnny. You make old George here eat his words!” The speaker emerged from the darkness of the corner and draped an arm around the young man's shoulders. He was a large, pudgy young man, made even larger by the artist's smock he was wearing. “A toast to young Johnny,” he said.
Glasses were raised.
“Pray be upstanding, ladies and gentlemen, and let's give the boy a rousing sendoff.”
Everyone in the saloon rose to their feet, so I did too. Arms were being linked as we were drawn into a circle. A hand came around my waist from one side, and then from the other. I returned the favor, cautiously, as voices started to sing, in several keys, “Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…”
“For Au'd Lang Syne, my dears,” we sang, swaying. How exciting and new it felt to be part of this intimate, uninhibited crowd. I was almost sorry when it was over. I was about to return to my seat when the person beside me spoke.
“You're not wearing a corset, I notice,” she said. “Does that mean you're one of us?”
It was die lady cigar smoker and I realized that hers had been one of the hands around my waist. “I'm not sure what one of you means,” I said, “but I've never worn a corset in my life and never intend to either.”
“Splendid,” she said, nodding encouragingly. “You are rebelling against the restrictions of society then.”
“I just don't think it's anybody's business but mine what I wear.”
She clapped her hands, laughing. “Then you are one of us. Come and join us at our table, unless of course you are awaiting an assignation.”
“No assignation, I assure you,” I said firmly.
“So you're a man-hater too—excellent.”
“I wouldn't say I'm a hater of all men,” I ventured cautiously. “It's just that the men I've met recently haven't given me cause to either like or trust them.”
“Words of wisdom. I can see we're going to get along famously. Do come and meet Gus.”
I let her slip her arm through mine and drag me across to the neighboring table.
“I've just snared us a delightful new companion, Gus, dear,” my captor said. “Do sit down and tell us your name.”
“Molly,” I said. “Molly Murphy.”
“Molly. How delightfiilly quaint,” the person named Gus said. I found myself staring again. Gus was a slight, pretty woman, with fine bones and her face framed with wild curls. She was wearing a severe black dress, but had topped it off with an exotic lace shawl flung carelessly over one shoulder.
“Am I so repulsive that you stare like that, Miss Murphy?” the woman asked, her voice severe but her eyes sparkling with merriment.
“I'm so sorry,” I stammered. “It's just that when she said Gus, I naturally expected—”
“I was baptized Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts,” she said, still laughing. “It was Sid here who renamed me Gus.”
“Sid?” I looked at the dark, interesting young woman in the smoking jacket.