North Vancouver

written by Sylvia Lorianne Leong
won 3rd prize in Vancouver’s North Shore Writing Competition

Northern rainforest
Sylvia Lorianne Leong, North Vancouver

The year is 1903. The enticing immigration advertisement depicted a luscious tangle of waist-high ferns and old-growth trees, yet hadn’t bothered to mention North Vancouver was only an insignificant hamlet of buildings. Alice Kyteler is perturbed. Until meeting the illustrious Colonel Alfred St. George Hamersley, who heats the dripping rainforest to steamy.

1903 AD

I sat on a bench on the ferry’s upper deck, gliding over a glassy-green inlet towards a dripping tangle of waist-high ferns and old-growth trees. My destination: North Vancouver.

My Siamese cat yowled as though in commiseration and leapt from my arms to peer over the side, probably thinking of fish. While the awning protected me from the morning mist, droplets like glass beads collected on Finnegan’s malt and coffee-coloured fur.

My cat looked back at me, all twitching ears and blinking blue eyes, as if to say, “What have you done with our lives?” Then, with a sinuous saunter, Finnegan disappeared into the forest of human legs.

The enticing advertisement hadn’t bothered to mention the town was still an insignificant hamlet of buildings. How could I be happy living in such a remote location? What in the world would I do with myself?

It was a fifteen-minute ferry ride between the two shores of what the advertisement had called a Coastal Temperate Rainforest. I gazed longingly back at the urban parent on the south shore, growing smaller in the distance; Vancouver was still an undersized town, yet a metropolis in comparison.

“I found your cat, Miss.”

A man with blue eyes stood before me, his face framed by thick, silvery hair — my gaze roamed lower — a powerfully-built body that sent my blood racing — my gaze roamed even lower — expensive, patent, low-tie shoes. He blinked in consternation at my open and brazen appraisal. Still, he knew the cat was mine and that meant he’d been watching me with interest.

“Who says Finnegan needed finding?” I asked, my lilt flirtatious. Accepting the cat on my lap, I shifted in a silent invitation for him to sit.

He eased beside me with grace and a commanding presence. “Colonel Alfred St. George Hamersley,” he said in an Oxfordshire accent. “At your service.” Here was a rare sort of manly-man who carried himself with elegance.

Intriguing.

“Alice Kyteler.” I placed my hand on his proffered palm. The underside of his gold wedding band glinted, but such things rarely mattered. His lips brushed the back of my fingers.

My cat rubbed its furry head against my cheek, a purr vibrating its flanks — an oft and affectionate parting mannerism. I reclined against the back of the bench seat as Finnegan leapt from my lap.

A startled expression crossed Alfred’s face.

A smile played on my lips. He expected me to control and confine my cat. This was going to be fun.

“What’s a lovely Irish lass doing such a long way from home?”

“Possibly the same as whatever you’re doing.”

Alfred smirked. “I’m meeting a developer to sell him a piece of land. I doubt, Lassie, you’re doing the same.”

I met his gaze, bitterness rising in my throat, wanting with every ounce of my being to prove his condescending carcass wrong. “When you’re done with him, perhaps you can sell me a piece too. For better or worse, I’m here to stay.”

Beneath his silvery moustache, his mouth twitched, probably wondering if I was in earnest. “May I escort you to the Hotel North Vancouver? At present, it’s the only suitable location. The hotel in Moodyville —” he pointed eastward “— is more for sailors.”

“I’ve sent word already. My room is waiting.”

The ferry docked. Alfred briskly diverted two stevedores on their way to unload a ship, hiring them to haul my trunks to my hotel room. I smiled at Alfred’s chivalry. It was impossible to stay irritated with a man who proved so effective, and with such efficiency.

With Finnegan at my heels, I threaded my arm through Alfred’s, and we waltzed up the pier to an orchestra of exotic birdsong. Forest-carpeted mountains commandeered the view. I inhaled woodiness, wet earth, and cloying green as though I was in the greenhouse behind my Irish cottage.

My mouth went dry. The ascending main road, Lonsdale Avenue, was dirt. We turned onto another dirt trail, mounded, with grass running down both sides. I supposed that’s what they meant by Esplanade. To the south, waves lapped against a beach.

I had considered Ireland green. But not like here. Trees surrounded us, each the girth of many men, soaring into the sky and crawling with ivy. Giant ferns crouched, waiting to spring. Except for the merest pockets, this land was far from tame.

I’d made a huge mistake in coming here. I couldn’t live in the middle of the wilderness. What the hell would I do with my time?

Finally, a few lonely buildings popped up amongst the trees. The tightness in my chest eased, but only a little. In the distance, I spotted the gambrel roof of the three-storey hotel and glanced at Alfred. “How can the hotel stay in business with such a sparse population?”

“It’s the community’s centre, a site for public gatherings, and a holiday retreat for Vancouverites across the inlet.” He patted my arm. “Will you join me for lunch?”

I wanted nothing more. Alfred had the sort of manliness I despised, yet was attracted to in equal measure. A masculinity meaning he knew all about the affairs of men, as well as what it meant to be one. However, that usually came with a fair bit of arrogance, along with little understanding of women. My draw to these types never made sense. “Oh, I wouldn’t intrude. You’ve done enough.”

“No, really, my business is a simple exchange of information. It should take thirty minutes at most, leaving you enough time to settle in. Please say you’ll meet me in the dining room?”

There it was, the crux of my damnable attraction and the foil of Alfred’s virility — vulnerability. He left himself wide open for rejection the way a person would if they were young and inexperienced, or had a tremendous amount of confidence and self-esteem. With Alfred, of course, it was the latter.

I inclined my head, smiling. “Fine. Send a message when you’re ready for my company.”

With Finnegan in my arms, rough tongue licking the back of my hand, I followed the porter to my room, and the heavily laden stevedores followed.

The word rainforest had conjured images of wild animals, so I’d chosen a room on the second floor. My door opened onto the stately wrap-around veranda, meaning Finnegan could come and go at will and still have a quick leap to safety during carnivorous pursuits.

The stevedores deposited my trunks against the one empty wall in my room and beat a hasty retreat.

My new home was small, yet well appointed. There was a bureau for my clothes, a vanity for my vanity, and a double bed for … options. The armchair and side table, snugged under a lace-covered window, speared my heart with homesickness for Kilkenny.

Another reason I was so attracted to Alfred — in this rural hamlet lorded over by wild beasts and forested mountains, I was out of my element. The Colonel was a powerful man who had taken great interest in me. For what more could I ask?

No sooner had I removed my gloves, swapped out my handkerchief, and availed myself of the pitcher and basin on the vanity, than a note slipped under my door. Thick hotel stationary held words that warmed my heart.

I’d delight of your company. A.H.

Alfred sat amongst white-draped tables beneath a grand curving staircase. His pleasure was apparent as he rose, grasping my elbow, helping me into my chair, his brows furrowing at the leather attaché case in my hand.

“Did you sell your property?” I asked.

He paled at my unabashed question. Business was a man’s domain; a topic they didn’t discuss with women.

I bit my lip, stifling a smile. Such a predictable reaction.

“Mr. Diplock is an intelligent man, English of course, and about fifteen years my junior. He got his start in the book and stationary business.”

I crossed my arms. So, Alfred would talk about the man instead of the business deal. He raised his teacup, sipped, and with a sidelong glance took in my level gaze, my unspoken challenge.

Alfred’s mouth pressed flat. “Mr. Diplock’s done great things with his construction company, but he’s overextended, and needs to raise more money. As much as I’d like to give him a deal, I can’t.” He set the teacup on its matching saucer. “His mind’s set on the finest property in North Vancouver. My first sale on the North Shore will set a precedent for those that follow. I’d be subsidizing the entire parcel.”

“What’s so fine about this property?” I didn’t care so much as I wanted to know how far he would foray beyond customary decorum.

“The northwest corner of the Lonsdale and Esplanade intersection. Diplock plans a two-storey commercial/residential mix called Syndicate Block that will always be at the centre of lively comings and goings to the North Shore. The heart of North Vancouver, so to speak.”

My homesickness swelled. Yet, an idea took hold. I wanted a window on this corner with my kitchen table beneath so I could sit and enjoy these lively comings and goings. If I had to live in North Vancouver, I wanted to be at its heart.

“You trust this man Mr. Diplock?”

“Yes.” He blinked at the unexpected question. “Unequivocally.”

“Alfred,” — without so much as a conversation about it, we’d long since given up on the formality of surnames — “I’m a woman of means. Please tell Mr. Diplock you’ve found him a silent partner.”

A slight flush appeared up the back of Alfred’s neck and he splayed his hands on the white tablecloth, both signs of discomfort.

“Also, please let Mr. Diplock know I want a suite of rooms built on the second floor, overlooking Lonsdale and Esplanade, for my personal use. These conditions are non-negotiable. I’ll front the remaining money.”

Alfred pinioned me with his stare. “You are serious?”

“Absolutely.” I pushed my cup and saucer to the side. “And if you broker this deal well —” I set my attaché case on the table “— I’ll buy another property from you, one large enough for a small apartment building.” My sterling silver châtelaine hung from my waist. I unhooked the key and fit it into the brass lock.

Alfred’s eyes widened as I handed him my letters of credit from banks all over Europe, along with a list of references. He took his time, perusing each document and turning over the last page, raised his arm. Mere seconds later, a hotel staffer appeared at our table. “I’ll need some stationary please, and a messenger.”

Once the stationary arrived, Alfred wrote six words in his confident script.

Your problem is solved. Come immediately. A.H.

I thrilled with his efficiency.

In due time, Mr. Diplock arrived.

I relaxed, allowing Alfred to handle him. No surprise, Diplock was suspicious and uncomfortable with a female silent partner. But Alfred’s negotiation skills were impressive, betraying his profession as a lawyer — Vancouver’s first. By the time lunch was over, the deal was done and the three of us were not only happy, but laughing like old friends.

“Much obliged to you, Mr. Hamersley, and to you Miss Kyteler, but I want to use the remainder of the afternoon to set things in motion. I imagine you’ll want that new home sooner than later.” Diplock nodded at me.

I suppressed a compulsion to hug the man, smiling instead.

After Diplock left, Alfred eased back in his chair, grinning. “Well Alice, with that squared away, I have my afternoon free. Can I interest you in an outing?”

I’d no idea what he had in mind and didn’t much care. At that point, I had only one interest. Under the tablecloth, I ran my fingertips up the inside of his thigh. His expression froze and red patches darkened on his neck.

“Room two-oh-one,” I whispered. “I’ll leave the door ajar.” The wedding band on his left hand called for discretion.

I stood.

Alfred swiftly remembered his manners, bolting up from his chair.

I placed my hand in his.

His lips brushed the back of my fingers. He murmured, “I’ll be along, posthaste.”

THE END

North Shore 27th Annual Writing Competition
North Shore 27th Annual Writing Competition

The historical fiction, North Vancouver, an adapted version of Chapter Six in THE UNWICKED WITCH, won 3rd place in Vancouver’s 27th Annual North Shore Writing Competition!

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission. Copyright 2023.