Your Time, My Time. Ann Walsh

parent at least for a year, I worry more about you than I would if your father and I were together. Well, will you try, Elizabeth? Will you try to be happy here?”

      “Okay, Mom. I’ll try. And I’ll bet that you’ll find you aren’t so tired once you get used to the work. We’ll have a good year; wait and see.”

      Her mother gave her a hug. “Sure we will. Just the two of us. We’ll manage.” Elizabeth and her mother smiled at each other, the harsh words forgotten, at least for now.

      “Listen, Elizabeth. Evan — the Judge — is taking me out tonight. There’s a group of people in Wells who paint and do pottery and that sort of thing, and he asked me if I’d like to go over and meet them. Maybe I’ll be inspired and get out my old oil paints on my next day off, if I can still remember anything about painting!”

      “Sure, Mom. You should go. You need friends your own age, too, you know!”

      “Cheeky brat.” Her mother grinned at her. “I’m off then. Pick up your room before you go to bed, okay?”

      “Yes, Mom. No problem.” Elizabeth paused, then spoke softly. “Mom?”

      Her mother turned around, hand on the front door knob. “Yes, dear?”

      “Mom? Do you think, when this year is over, that you’ll go back to Dad?”

      Joan Connell waited a long time before she answered. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. It’s too early to tell. I need this time away from your father, but it might work out that way. I don’t know, I just don’t know yet.”

      “That’s okay, Mom. I was just asking.”

      “I know, Elizabeth. This has been hard on you. Let’s both keep our chins up, dear, and hope that things work out. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

       Chapter 5

      The next day Elizabeth sat among the tourists that crowded the tiny Wesleyan Methodist Church and waited for the Judge to finish his monologue.

      It won’t be long now, she thought. The Judge was already telling the story of Cataline, the muleskinner, and how his lands were saved by a timely action of Begbie’s.

      Elizabeth had decided to talk to the Judge about what had happened to her yesterday. She had stayed awake last night, worried and unable to sleep, long after her mother had returned to the trailer. The Judge had been in Barkerville for a long time. He, if anyone, would be able to help her understand what had happened in the graveyard — if, in fact, anything had happened and she wasn’t just going crazy.

      Staring at the Judge, hoping to catch his eye, she once again had the frightening feeling that the man in the long robes who stood before her was not her friend, Evan, but the real ‘Hanging Judge’ himself. The Judge finally saw her and acknowledged her presence by nodding to her and saying, “Isn’t that a fact, young lady?” after a statement. Elizabeth relaxed.

      Come on, Judge, she thought. Finish talking. I need to tell you about the graveyard.

      As if on cue, the Judge finished his speech, and threw the courtroom open to questions. Luckily, there were only a few, and soon he was bowing to the applause that shook the foundations of the tiny old building. The audience, content with the performance, slowly made its way through the wooden pews and out of the church. The Judge gathered his books and gavel and got ready to leave. As he came down the aisle towards her, he smiled and called a greeting. “Afternoon, Your Majesty. And how’s the young Bess today?”

      “Fine, Judge. You were great, as usual.”

      “Thank you.” The Judge sat down on the pew beside her. “Are you sure you’re fine?” he asked. “You look a bit down-in-the-mouth to me.”

      “Yes. I’m okay. I was just wondering if . . ..” In spite of herself, Elizabeth felt tears inching their way into her eyes.

      “Come on, now.” The Judge’s voice was firm. “You’re not upset because I’m calling you ’Your Majesty’ again, are you? You know that’s just my little joke; a judge’s reverence for a young lady who looks so much like a famous queen.” He reached out a hand and patted her on the shoulder. “Come on, now. Don’t cry. Just let me take off this wig, then tell me all about it.”

      Elizabeth grubbed in her pocket for a Kleenex, found a rather sad looking one, and firmly blew her nose, banishing the ready tears. “No. I like your nicknames for me, Judge. It’s not that. I guess I need someone to talk to. Can you listen for a while?”

      The Judge’s moustache, freshly waxed for every performance, now drooped slightly in the heat. He placed his heavy horsehair wig on the pew beside him. Small beads of sweat marked where it had framed his face during the performance, and his cheeks were flushed, but he still looked impressive — tall and dignified and every inch a judge.

      “Bess, my dear, I’ll listen as long as you want to talk. I know about the disagreement you and your mother had last night.”

      Suddenly, Elizabeth didn’t know how to begin.

      “No, it’s not that either. It’s . . ..”

      The Judge sat patiently, waiting for her to start, but the words just wouldn’t come. Then, gathering her courage, she began, “Judge, did you ever think that you were going crazy?”

      The Judge laughed, a great booming laugh that seemed to come from beyond him, from the boisterous, robust days when Barkerville and Judge Begbie were both young. “You ask an actor that?” he said. “Listen, my young friend, when you act, especially when you act three or four times a day, day after day, when you portray a person who is not yourself, you sometimes get very mixed up. Actors often wonder who they really are.

      “You see, the characters sometimes spill over into your real life and you find yourself thinking and behaving like them, rather than like yourself. And when you pretend to be a real person, someone who actually existed, like Judge Begbie, the problem becomes worse.

      “I know Judge Begbie so well. I know where he lived, what he read, how he spoke, what he liked to drink — and how much! I know him so thoroughly that sometimes I think he’s taken over a part of me. Sometimes I have to stop and say to myself, ’Hey! Did I, Evan, say that, or was it the Judge himself putting words into my mouth?’

      “Once in a while I don’t even know for sure just who I am. Judge Begbie was such a powerful person that I’ve had times when I think he’s taking over and shoving Evan aside. Often I wonder if . . . . Yes, Bess. Everyone sometimes thinks they’re going crazy.”

      Elizabeth thought she knew her friend fairly well, but he had just shown her a whole new side of himself. She momentarily forgot her own problem, and just sat and stared at him.