The scene I’ve chosen is where she has a huge fight with Colin, and shows him there’s nothing wrong with his back.
The sound of crying wakes me. It’s so loud I’m surprised Gran hasn’t woken up too. Is it me, crying in my sleep? I was on the edge of tears all afternoon.
I get through the days, and they’re okay, but at night I feel as if I’m taking part in a story, and I can hardly wait to find out what’s going to happen next.
There is someone else in the room. The “sad girl” huddles in her usual place, crouched beside the trunk. She’s trying hard not to cry, but now and again I hear a great gulping sob. It makes me want to cry too, to comfort her even before I know what’s wrong. I slide out of bed and sit down cross-legged on the floor, facing her.
“Please tell me why you’re upset. I won’t tell anyone; you can trust me,” I whisper, afraid she’ll disappear.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair,” she sobs.
“What isn’t fair?” I ask, willing her to stay, not taking my eyes off her.
“Miss Alice searched my room, turned it all upside down. Mrs. Dunn must have put her up to it. They had no right….”
“Of course, they didn’t. It’s against the law to treat you like that.”
“What law? I’ve heard of no law for orphans. They can accuse Home children of stealing without proof, if they’ve a mind to, and there’s no one to speak up for us.” She wipes her eyes.
I don’t know how to help, except to listen and tell her I’m on her side. “Why did they accuse you?”
“It’s all that Mr. Norman’s fault. He’s been eyeing me for weeks. Sometimes when I’m handing round the plates at table, he brushes my arm, or he comes out of his room when he hears me on the landing. It’s narrow even for one person up there. It gives him an excuse to stand close to me, pretending he just happened to be there at the same time.
“I’ve grown out of both my work dresses. They’re too tight, and too short. I’ve moved the buttons and let down the hems as much as they’ll go. That’s the best I can do. I’ve been here more than a year–I’ve grown. I’ll be thirteen in two months, and I’m supposed to be provided with my board and keep. By rights Mrs. Dunn should get me another dress, but I don’t like to ask her.
“The Sunday school picnic was on Saturday. St. John’s Anglican Church is where Mrs. Dunn and Miss Alice worship, and where I attend Sunday school. I was allowed to go, as long as my chores were done. I polished the silver, washed the scullery floor and the new gray linoleum in the kitchen, and blackleaded the stove. Then I changed into my Sunday dress. It’s dark blue flannel and still fits me because they made it to fit big back in London.
“I was told to return from the outing in plenty of time to help Miss Alice with Saturday night supper. Finally I was free to leave. I did feel happy, being out in the fresh air amongst the trees and flowers, with a whole afternoon ahead to enjoy myself with other girls my age.
“I’d never been on a picnic before. Miss Farrell, our Sunday school teacher, took us to Jackson Park, and we settled under the shade of some sycamore trees. We spread out a big white linen cloth, and laid out the food. I added Miss Alice’s famous corn bread to the feast as my contribution. There were layer cakes, tea biscuits, jam tarts, and a lemon sponge. We had hard-boiled eggs and ham sandwiches and two cold roast chickens. More food than I’d ever seen at one meal.
“I have enough to eat, but I don’t get everything the same as the boarders. Not that I’m complaining; it’s a lot better than I ever had back home. Miss Farrell brought lemonade for everyone and candied fruits as a special treat.
“After we’d cleared away and scattered crumbs for the birds, we played games like I spy and hide-and-go-seek and jump rope. Then Miss Farrell gathered us in a circle and talked about children less fortunate than ourselves. The class agreed to give all the leftover food to the Children’s Aid shelter at the north end of Water Street. The teacher said I might deliver it on my way home, as I live on Water Street too. She said that I was never to forget that once I was one of those unfortunate children, and wasn’t I lucky to have found a good home? They like to remind you where you come from … make sure that you’re properly grateful.
“It got hotter and hotter, and Miss Farrell said we could walk quietly in the park for an hour before it was time to leave. She sat down on a blanket to rest, and the others went off in small groups.
“I don’t have a special friend because of being a Home girl and working as a skivvy, but Sadie Johnston and Millie Hughes asked if I wanted to go to the creek, below Bonaccord Street, with them. Millie’s big brother had seen two blue herons there that week. A heron was still there, standing on one leg, motionless as a stone, almost as though he had been carved out of air. He never moved, not even when we took off our shoes and stockings to go into the water to cool off.
“We waded in, lifting our skirts up to our knees. Suddenly Millie screamed, pointing towards the bushes. The heron, startled, rose up and flew away.
“‘A man, there’s a man looking at us!’ she yelled. We grabbed hold of each other’s hands and scrambled back to the bank, picking up our things and running till we were breathless. We dried our feet as best as we could with our petticoats, hoping Miss Farrell wouldn’t notice. But Millie was in hysterics, crying about a man with glaring eyes. Miss Farrell tried to comfort her, then looking directly at me, she said coldly, ‘I will not enquire whose idea it was to go to the creek, but I hope you have all learned a lesson, and will behave in a more seemly manner in future.’
“We walked back to the church, where the mothers were waiting to pick up their daughters. I carried the remains of the picnic to the children’s shelter, and was back in time to help Miss Alice. I thanked her again for the corn bread and she set me to scraping carrots and new potatoes.
“After supper that night, when Miss Alice had put the leftover roast in the pantry, she reminded me to scour the sink in the scullery and then went upstairs to the parlor. I was sweeping the floor when Mr. Norman came in. He was holding a small box in his hand. ‘I thought you might like a chocolate,’ he said, and offered me a gold-wrapped sweet. ‘It must have been most refreshing, paddling in the creek this afternoon, the water cool on your bare feet and legs.’ He stared at me and I remembered how we’d waded into that lovely water, our skirts held too high. And then I knew he was the man who’d seen us–the man in the bushes! He looked so pleased with himself, I wanted to sweep him out of the room.
“‘Yes, sir, it was… very refreshing, and no, sir, I don’t want a chocolate. I had sufficient to eat at the picnic. If you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my work now.’
“‘Some other time, perhaps,’ he said, and stood, watching me, like a cat waiting to pounce.
“At that moment, Mrs. Dunn came into kitchen. ‘Do you require anything, Mr. Norman?’ she asked. Then, harshly to me, ‘You are late with my tea, girl. Bring the tray upstairs as soon as it’s ready’
“I lifted the steaming kettle off the hob and heard Mr. Norman say, as they left the room, ‘I was looking for you, dear madam, to give you a small gift. Today I was informed that I am being transferred to the Toronto branch of the bank, and sadly I shall be leaving your delightful establishment at the end of the week.’
“It was as if someone had lifted a great weight from me.”
“He was trying to bribe you with chocolate, so that you wouldn’t say anything, wasn’t he?” I ask.
She stops crying now and says, “I thought I was safe from him. He’d be gone in a few days. I vowed not to go anywhere near him, to keep out of his way as much as I could. A few days later, I was putting the clean towels away in the closet upstairs. I had to stand on tiptoe because it’s hard for me to reach the top shelf. I felt two hands on my waist and then they slid along my arms. When I felt his mouth on the side of my neck, I ducked my head and kicked his shins with all my strength.
“‘Don’t you ever touch me again,’ I said, and ran downstairs and got my
pail and brush and scrubbed the front steps until my wrists ached. My dress had a tear under the arm where I’d pulled away from him, but I could bear anything, knowing he’d be gone by Saturday.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“Who’d believe me? What could I say? That he followed us at the picnic, that he offered me a sweet, that he helped me put the towels away? Who’d even listen? The only person I ever met who’d speak up for me is far away, slaving on a farm, I expect. I miss him.”
I take her hand and hold it, feeling how rough her skin is compared to mine.
“Tell me what happened then,” I say
“After lunch the next day, Mrs. Dunn sent for me. I went upstairs wondering what I had done to upset her. I’d cobbled my dress together somehow, so it wasn’t that. I’d given the parlor a good turnout, waxed and polished the furniture, including the piano, which is never touched because Mr. Dunn used to play it, and which is covered with a lace cloth. A big brass pot of ferns stands in the middle of the piano and I’d made sure it gleamed. I’d dusted the fire screen, carefully brushing the embroidered peacock on it with the wool duster. The china candlesticks, decorated with tiny rosebuds, had been washed in warm soapy water and dried with a soft cloth. After I’d neatened the cushions on the blue damask sofa and straightened the blue silk scarf that lay over the back of it, I’d wiped the big mirror and both windows with vinegar and water, until they squeaked.
“I knocked on the door, even though it was open. Mrs. Dunn was at her desk doing her accounts. She blotted the page she’d been writing on before walking over to one of the high-backed blue fireside chairs. As soon as she was seated, I carried the matching footstool over to her and waited for instructions. She looked as if she had one of her nervous headaches.
“‘I have received a complaint regarding your conduct from one of my boarders.’ I braced myself for the lecture that was sure to follow. I knew what was coming, or thought I did. Mr. Norman must have told her that I’d been disrespectful.
“‘Mr. Norman tells me that this morning he left his watch chain on his washstand, and when he returned at lunchtime, the chain was missing. You are the only person to have entered Mr. Norman’s room today. What have you done with it?’
“‘I have done nothing because I never took it. What use would a watch chain be to me, ma’am?’ I said.
“Before Mrs. Dunn had time to answer, Miss Alice came in and said, ‘Nothing, sister.’ What did she mean by ‘nothing’? I opened my mouth to speak, but Mrs. Dunn stopped me.
“‘I do not wish to hear another word from you, impudent girl. You will accompany Miss Alice to the scullery and she will search your person for the missing article.’
“I swore that I had not taken anything; told them that I’d tidied Mr. Norman’s room as usual and left a clean towel for him on the washstand. I said he had not left the watch chain in his room–why would he, when he always wore the watch to work? ‘If he says I’m a thief, then he is a liar,’ I said boldly.
“Mrs. Dunn slapped me then for speaking out of turn and told me that Mr. Norman was taking his watch to the watch repairer to be cleaned. Miss Alice grabbed my arm and pushed me out of the room. Downstairs, she stood over me, while I removed my shoes and dress and apron and shook out my petticoat. Then she hustled me back upstairs. I pulled away from her and said, ‘I am not a thief, Mrs. Dunn, as you well know. You can count the apples in the fruit bowl, the spoons in the sideboard, and never find one missing. I don’t take what doesn’t belong to me. Perhaps Mr. Norman misplaced the chain.’
“The sisters looked at each other, and without another word I marched out and into Mr. Norman’s room. They followed me and watched from the doorway. I looked in the dresser, inside the wardrobe, and under the bed. When I stripped the bed, I found the chain lying below the undersheet, on top of the wool mattress. ‘Here it is,’ I said, and handed it to Miss Alice.
“Mrs. Dunn ordered me to make up the room again, and then to brew her tea and bring it up to her.”
“You mean, they didn’t apologize to you?” I ask.
“Not a word. I made up the bed, punching the bolster and wishing it was his face, then went downstairs to make the tea. When I brought up the tray, Mrs. Dunn told me to pour her a cup. I handed it to her, expecting a kind word after all that had happened. ‘Do you remember what I told you, when you came here a year ago?’ she asked me.
“Luckily she didn’t wait for an answer, because I couldn’t have remembered a word just then.
“‘I spoke to you about the importance of having an unblemished character. You are fortunate that I am not dismissing you on the spot, and returning you to Dr. Barnardo’s Home without a character reference.’
“‘But I didn’t do anything. Mr. Norman made it all up for spite.’
“‘Even the hint of a complaint against a servant is enough to destroy her character. Why would a gentleman like Mr. Norman bother with a girl like you? Unless,’ she cleared her throat, ‘you have provoked him in some way. If ever I have cause to speak to you on such a matter again, you will be dismissed instantly. I will make sure that no respectable establishment will ever hire you. Now turn around. I am not pleased with your appearance. Tomorrow you will be provided with material to make yourself a dress that covers you decently. Go and finish your work.’
“That night, when I went upstairs to my room, I saw what Miss Alice had done–what she meant when she’d said ‘nothing.’ My ribbon was lying crumpled on the floor and worse, so was the picture postcard that Helen had given me. My bed had been stripped down to the mattress, and not made up again. I tried not to cry. I was so tired and sad. The worst I’d ever felt since Helen died and I didn’t shed tears then.
“Why can’t they call me by my name? It’s always ‘you’ or ‘girl.’ I’m treated like a piece of dirt off the street. I want a place where I’m wanted; I want a family, the way they promised us.”
“I’m Katie, won’t you please tell me your name?” I reach for her hand, but she vanishes, goes away again to that other world of hers, where I can’t follow. Before I fall asleep, I hear her whisper, “My name is Lillie.”
Lily? That’s Colin’s mother’s name. I’m so mixed up, all the stories jumble in my head and I can’t sort them out. Next morning I wake up still on the floor, and my hand is on the lid of the trunk, touching the letter L.
Gypsy
The window is open, and the sweet smell of the late-evening breeze from the lake and the garden creeps into the attic. It’s dark, my candle has burned right down, and I’m not due for another one until Friday, but I don’t care.
I have so much to tell you, Helen, I hardly know where to begin. My thoughts are tangled like a skein of wool that needs unraveling.
I want to tell you every single thing that’s happened this week. I want to write you a letter, and roll it up and tie it to the leg of the little rock dove that’s cooing on the roof, and send it up to you in Heaven. If only I could. But I know you’re up there, listening to me.
It all started on Tuesday–ironing day. While I was waiting for the flatirons to heat, I scoured the kitchen garden for slugs. They are awfully bad this year. Miss Alice looks at me accusingly when I bring in the vegetables, as if it were me who’d nibbled holes in the lettuce, instead of the slugs. That day I knelt down and sprinkled each of their slimy little bodies with salt. When they stopped writhing, I dropped them into my pail. It turned my stomach having to do that.
A voice said, “If you circle the vegetables with crushed eggshells, it keeps the slugs away.” A girl about my age looked down at me. I stood up and thanked her. We were almost the same height. Her glossy black hair fell in two thick braids, almost to her waist. I felt drab beside her in my patched blue work dress. She looked so colorful in her red skirt, white blouse, and black bodice, richly embroidered with beads and flowers. I recognized her as one of the Gypsies who’d been camping at South End Park, waiting for their menfolk to be released from jail. The whole town had
been abuzz about them. They caused more stir and gossip than the circus. I heard they were moving on to Ottawa, now that the men have been freed. Mrs. Dunn had me counting the washing every time I took it off the line because some of the neighbors had missed sheets and pillowcases and blamed the Gypsies.
The girl smiled at me, showing sparkling white teeth. She pulled a wooden peg from the woven bag she was carrying and asked me if we needed some clothes-pegs. I’d already taken down the clothes and rolled them up in the laundry basket, which I’d carried inside for ironing. I shook my head.
When she offered to tell my fortune, I said, “I have no money, but I’ll let you have my lunch in exchange.” I ran in and got the bread and cold bacon left out for me from the boarders’ breakfast. When I returned, the girl had settled herself against the young maple tree, her eyes shut tight against the midmorning sun.
Miss Alice and Mrs. Dunn wouldn’t be home for a while yet. They’d gone to a luncheon meeting at the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.
The girl stuffed the food into her mouth and asked me where I came from. I told her I’d crossed the ocean two years ago, from England.
She said, “You could be one of us, with your dark hair and skin. Hold out your left hand.” She bent over my palm, and her necklace of silver coins glittered and jangled above my wrist.
“I see a journey,” she said. Well, I’m not a fool; I had mentioned that already. I hoped she could do better than that in exchange for my lunch.
“Do you mean another journey?” I asked her.
She put her forefinger across my lips. “I see more travel. There is a child you guard who is not yours.” She held up my hand, and looked at the lines on the side of my palm. “But I see three more–your own. A fair-haired man is waiting for you. He waits without knowing how to find you, or where. He will love you forever and you him.” She tossed her braids back over her shoulders, and said, “It is a good fortune.” She licked the bacon fat off her fingers and stood up. “Why stay here? Come and travel with us.”
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