She wasn’t more than a bit of a thing, little Annie Potts, when her daddy brought her to the mountains. A railway camp is nowhere for a young girl to grow up, but there stood John Potts – broad shoulders, strong arms, built for hard work and us shorthanded. He assured me that the little redhead wouldn’t cause trouble, would take care of herself, and would stay out of everyone’s way. Despite my apprehension, I needed men like him, and so Annie came to shanty town.
She brought life to that miserable, dirty, noisy work camp. Her red curls could often be seen dashing hither and yon on one errand or another, willing to help anyone who asked. When her laughter sparkled across the camp a smile lit up the face of even the gnarliest of our men. She was everyone’s best girl, and many of us took to bringing back little trinkets and ribbons for her hair when we went to town. It was a pleasure to watch her green eyes sparkle like well-cut gems as she tore open the wrappings. A little girl should be all buttons and bows, not frayed hair ribbons, grimy coveralls, and hand-me-down work boots. Annie made do with what she had, but sometimes I’d catch her staring off into space and wonder where her daydreams took her.
We got to be good friends, Annie and I. I suppose I made up for the attention she didn’t get from her Daddy. Now Big John wasn’t a bad man, but being raised an only child hadn’t prepared him for bringin’ up a little girl on his own. I think, too, that she looked too much like her dead mother for him to hardly bear to look at her. So he kept her fed, housed, and clothed and I got to do the rest. It was me she’d come to when her boots’d wear out and I’d either fix the old ones or help her bargain for another pair. And when her body began to mature I was the one left to explain what she could expect and how to handle things. Thanks to long letters full of womanly advice from my wife and raising four girls of my own, I think I did pretty well.
The young lady took to waiting for me to come off the line after work, perched on a tree stump beside the main line in all kinds of weather. Then she’d come to my shanty for tea and tell me all about her dream. One day, she’d tell me, she’d leave the camp and go out East to Ottawa or even Montreal. Then she’d go to one of them fine schools and learn to be a lady just like her mother had been. She’d wear her hair all piled up on top of her head, fancy dresses, hats, gloves, and she’d carry a parasol – just so – on her shoulder so that everyone would watch her walk by and say, “My, what a fine lady she is!”.
When she was a lady, her story would continue, she’d have a whole chest full of shoes if she could. She’d have all kinds of shoes… fancy ones with buttons, bows, and even high heels! “Not like these old things,” she’d say, pointing down at the oversize work boots on her feet with a sigh. For lack of any better alternatives, her father had found that the little girl could wear the second-hand boots of the Oriental rail crews. So the whole time she lived in the work camp, Annie Potts was forced to wear second-hand shoes. To her, those boots represented everything she wanted to leave behind.
Though she was sad when her father was killed, I think it was a relief to her. She was free then to reach for her dreams. There was quite a tidy sum set aside for her because of Big John’s accident, and when she put that together with the pennies she’d saved from years of patching the men’s coveralls, Annie had more than enough to get out East to where her Mother’s people waited for her. As a surprise the men all pitched in and we ordered up a fancy outfit for her from the Sears catalogue for her going away present. The only problem was that the shoes never arrived. So the last time I saw Annie, she was standing on the makeshift platform, suitcase in hand, wearing a fancy dress, with her auburn hair tucked haphazardly under a matching hat, and on her feet the left-over shoes of some itinerant Chinese rail man.
Once the railway went through and all our girls were grown up, my wife and I came up to the pass and built this hotel. Even though it’s right by the site of the old work camp it’s a far cry better. We offer clean rooms and home-cooked meals to the railway passengers, and they keep us plenty busy. Every time the train stops, a group gets off to replace the passengers getting on. So it had been years since I thought of Annie, until last week.
The train pulled in late (as usual) and as I was helping lift the bags up into the passenger cars I heard a murmur go up from the crowd. Looking up with a smile, I saw what was attracting their attention. Nearby a well-dressed young gentleman was reaching up to give his had to one of the finest ladies I’d ever laid eyes on. Her dress – all ribbons, lace, and frills – obviously belonged to a woman of means. Her hat – set high on a pile of bright red curls – was tastefully decorated with feathers. After brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt with gloved hands, she opened a matching parasol and set it on her shoulder… just so. I saw the bright wink as polished buttoned shoes caught the light form under the hem of her dress.
“Mister Aimsley?” the young man inquired, extending his had. I smiled as I shook his hand, and nodded, so he continued, “I’m Patrick King, and this is my wife, Anne.”
I took the lady’s hand and bowed deeply to kiss it, then looked up into bright green eyes and winked. “A right fine lady she is, too, sir.” I exclaimed. “Uncle Bart!” she squealed, much as she used to do, and flung her arms around my neck, all decorum gone.
Pat and Annie stayed on at the lodge with us for almost a week. We got to hear the whole story of her trip to Ottawa. With what money she’d had left when she arrived she’d enrolled in one of the best finishing schools in the city, determined to work her way through if she had to. Patrick’s aunt, taken by Annie’s overwhelming determination, had offered to sponsor her. That meant, inevitably, that the young lady spent a lot of time with the charming and elegant Patrick who was completely besotted with her from the first time she smiled at him. So she’d done it; gone and turned into a fine lady, married a proper gentleman, and become – according to Patrick – the belle of social circles in Ottawa. I’d never doubted she would.
They left this morning on the train, the two of them looking so fine and proper as they waved goodbye. After they were gone my wife came down from their room carrying a small, tissue wrapped parcel. As soon as I opened it I knew exactly what needed to be done.
It was a short trip across the tracks to the site of the old shanty town. There, on a stump beside the tracks where a freckle-faced girl used to wait for me, I left two of the most worn-out second hand work boots that ever adorned the feet of a lady.
Don’t mind the tears in an old mans eyes. Happy endings will do that to me. You see, I’ve just laid to rest little Annie Potts, lady-in-waiting of the CPR Rocky Mountain work camp, and said “Goodbye” to Mrs. Patrick King, who’s gone off to be the toast of Ottawa. One brought life and laughter to the grimiest of places, the other has been set free to be the lady she was always meant to be.
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