Mable Riley

by Marthe Jocelyn

  The courthouse, the city hall, and the post office seem all to have been built from the same load of bricks red and yellow with much festive trim. The post office was very busy, with several townsfolk doing business or chatting when their business was done. I particularly remember there were a great many people because of what happened next. As Alfred and I made our way across the tiled floor, we heard someone call my name.

  “Why, Mable Riley! What luck to see you here!” It was Mrs. Rattle, wearing a cloak of scarlet cashmere, with violet gloves, which she waved at me wildly, as if summoning a child.

  “I have good news to tell!” Her voice rang out like church bells on a cold night, and if that were not enough, she clasped me by the waist and kissed my cheek! It seemed to me that nine thousand pairs of eyes were staring at us. Alfred had edged away to speak with a clerk.

  “What do you think? I have secured myself a job! My troubles will be lessened at once.”

  “A job?”

  “Yes, beginning tomorrow at 6:40 A.M. I am to be a curd turner at the Bright Creek Cheese factory. How do you like that?”

  “I – I –”

  “What? Has the cat got your tongue?”

  “No, ma'am. I – I am surprised, I think. I did not realize …” I looked at her elegant boots, her unpinned hair, and her luxurious cloak. “I am trying to picture you as a factory girl.”

  “I shall undergo a transformation, I assure you.” She grinned. “I hope it won't be for terribly long, in any case.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Goodhand. Are you here to claim Mable?”

  Alfred had inched his way back to my side.

  “Mrs. Rattle has just become employed,” I told him, “at the cheese factory.”

  “That's quite a distance to travel, ma'am,” said Alfred, raising a rusty eyebrow. “Bright Creek is halfway to town from Sellerton.”

  “Oh, I'm well used to long journeys on my bicycle. It's only five or six miles. I can pedal that while I am still asleep!”

  There were a few words more back and forth and then we came away, with Mrs. Rattle's “Come early on Sunday!” ringing in my ears.

  Perhaps my behaviour was not admirable, but I believe I did not betray my mortification to Mrs. Rattle. I did not expect to see her there, in a public place.

  Is it wrong to be ashamed in public about something that I secretly treasure? I would not give up my afternoons at Silver Lining for all the world, and yet and yet how can I say this? I do not wish the world to know about them.

  On the journey home, I sought to have Alfred's counsel on the matter.

  “Alfred?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What do you think of Mrs. Rattle?”

  “Well, now, there's a question,” said Alfred.

  We trotted along in silence.

  “Don't you think she's awfully pretty?”

  “Hard to say what she looks like, her costumes are so distracting. A girl should look like a girl, in my opinion.”

  I giggled. “You sound like your father,” I told him.

  “There's times he's right,” said Alfred. “No one wants to eat supper across the table from a gypsy. A man wants a girl in a tidy dress.”

  “My mother says we shouldn't judge people by their appearances.”

  “Well, I'm not saying she's wrong if you're referring to the appearance God gave us. I always thought my personality was more suited to something of a taller nature, with dark, wavy hair and a fine mustache.”

  Poor Alfred, I had never imagined a man might notice that he wasn't the handsomest.

  “But it seems to me,” he went on, “that in the matter of clothing and general upkeep, the way a person presents himself, or herself in this case, is an announcement to the world of who that person wants to be.”

  “I never thought of it like that,” I said.

  “With Mrs. Rattle, she's going to a heap of trouble to look peculiar, wouldn't you say? And making her point, I might add.”

  “I suppose.”

  That was all we said on the matter, but not all of what I thought about it. I expect the thinking will continue for as long as I know Mrs. Rattle.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

  When I awoke in the night, I was greatly comforted by Viola's back and the warmth of her beneath the quilt. I wished we might be friends again as we were when we were younger. That I might put my hand on the crook of her arm and not be pushed away. We used to play a game where I was the lost lamb and she was the blind shepherdess. It was silly, really. I would baa and hide and bleat, and she would find and comfort me.

  I think what came between us was Papa's death. Mama needed Arthur to become the man of the house, though he was only fourteen. And she confided in Viola as she had not done before. Viola and Arthur became adults, and I was left to be a child. There was no more silly whispering at night, no more dressing up in Mama's petticoats, no more chatter or cuddling. I became a worry and a bother instead of a sister and a friend.

  I wonder if Viola would agree with such speculation.

  FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 27

  Finally, my efforts with the younger Cheerful Commas have paid off! We won the spelling bee to-day. We now trail by only twelve points! My own words, flawlessly spelled, were miscellaneous, accommodate, allegiance, and condemned. Elizabeth faltered on condemned. She used a double m instead of m-n. Ha!

  Last evening we went again to Endeavor. (Elizabeth was quite civil, assuming perhaps that the Hyphens would triumph over the Commas this afternoon. Ha!)

  Tommy Thomas was there, making us all laugh with his imitation of the Reverend Scott. He was very near discovered when Miss Robertson, at the piano, turned quickly to hide a sneeze and Tommy's fingers were wiggling at his chin like living whiskers. Elizabeth said he was showing off to impress me.

  Alfred and Viola did not sing on the return walk. We were accompanied to the Elgin Road by a Mrs. Watson, whose husband owns the general store in Sellerton. She was only wed last spring and now expects the arrival of a baby before Christmas. She has a lovely soprano voice, but she tends to pant between verses.

  When we parted ways, she invited Viola to go with her on Sunday next to a meeting of the new Ladies Reading Circle. Viola said she would think on it.

  “It might be nice to make a friend or two for yourself,” said Alfred as we walked on.

  “Oh, I think not,” said Viola. “I don't have time to read books, and what would the ladies think if the teacher was not even so clever as they are?”

  “Reading a book may be just an excuse to get together for a gossip,” said Alfred, quite kindly I thought. “In my mother's day, it was knitting for the needy.”

  “Perhaps,” said Viola, but I could see she has no intention of going.

  Joseph Brown chased me to-day during the lunch recess while his brother and Tommy watched from a perch in the oak tree. He pretended to think I had hidden his cap, but I saw it later in his satchel so have confirmed the ruse. I let him catch me next to the tree and dared him with my eyes to be impertinent. I should so like to know what it feels like to be kissed! But once he held my shoulders in his hands, he knew not what to do and slunk away with his ears bright pink.

  The Brown boys are very sweet of face, but I suspect they may be lacking between the ears. Joseph is a Comma and Henry a Hyphen they rather cancel each other out with their mistakes.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

  Wrote to Mama, wrote to Hattie, and then set about the labour of doing my laundry. The rain barrel is quite full from the recent storms, so I used rainwater, which is much nicer than from the pump. I washed both shirtwaists and all my stockings and underthings (which I did not hang in the yard! They dry on a rack in our bedroom). After less than an hour, the sun had done its work. I ironed the shirtwaists and hair ribbons and then wrote a postscript to Mama. I asked if we might afford the material for me to make a new shirtwaist.

  I have calculated that Elizabeth has six shirtwaists, for she wears a different one every school day and a sil
k to church. I have two, and two collars. Even with the varying combinations, I must wear on Friday what has been already worn on another day! Perhaps I should improve my needlework with embroidering a new collar.

  We heated more rainwater so that Viola and I could each wash our hair. She was in an amiable mood, so I helped curl her hair with the iron. It looks so pretty up in a knot, with a few curls purposely escaping. Alfred agreed with me, without prompting. If only she did not scowl so often.

  The remainder of the morning I spent in writing another chapter for Hattie, to send with her letter, and another rhyme for my scholars, which I think is very clever.

  When Frank awoke, he heard a roar.

  It was so loud, it shook the floor.

  He trembled as he listened more.

  It surely was a dinosaur!

  Along the hall, Frank crept with care,

  Alarmed by thunder in the air.

  Imagining a growly bear,

  Frank ventured to his parents' lair.

  Poor boy was shaken to his core.

  What monster lurked beyond the door?

  Frank galloped in on the count of four…

  There lay his father, caught mid-snore!

  Will that not amuse them? And it makes good use of homophonic endings as well.

  PART THE FOURTH

  {THE DASHING CAPTAIN}

  Helena knew not why her heart leaped as though lit with gunpowder, yet leap it did. A man stood in the doorway the brim of his hat shadowing his face.

  “Dear ladies and fine gentlemen.” The man's smooth, deep voice set Helena's skin atingle. “This train will remain here only for the time it takes my associates to remove the sacks of gold and precious stones from the treasury car. It is my privilege to accept your watches and jewellery personally.” He lifted his head as he stepped farther into the car.

  Helena's breath caught in her throat. She had never seen anyone so handsome. He was cleanshaven, with dancing, dark eyes and a confident smile upon his full lips.

  “Hey! Look here!” James pulled himself up, deciding too late to display some manliness. “Who do you think you are?”

  The bandit turned his head and raised an eyebrow at the sight of James's flushed face and nervous hands.

  “Yes, it's you I'm speaking to, you scurrilous rogue!” shouted James, raising his fists.

  The stranger slid a firearm from the sash about his waist and pointed it lazily toward the ceiling.

  “You may address me by name,” spake he. “I am best known as Captain Brigand.” Admiration thrilled through the car, for the title was well known in these parts. “Though I have heard,” he continued with an impudent grin, “that officers of the law like to call me Ugly Joe.”

  With one swift motion he pulled the trigger on his gun, releasing such a burst of sound as to sting Helena's ears for several minutes.

  “I have never yet killed a man,” he said, “and surely do not want the first to be for reasons of stupidity. If you will all be so kind as to remove your valuables, I can do my job without causing harm.”

  The first glimmer of dawn's pink light cracked the shroud of darkness beyond the window. James slumped into his seat again, reaching into his pocket for his watch. Helena's fingers trembled at the clasp of her diamond brooch. It had been a birthday gift from her dear father, the earl, and was shaped like a crescent moon.

  In an instant, the captain was before her, leaning close, the scent of him reminding her of saddles and wet grass on a spring morning. Helena raised her gentle green eyes to meet his dark ones for a prolonged moment of inner tumult. She placed her beloved trinket into his upturned palm and looked away.

  It was only at that close range that Helena had detected a dusting of boyhood freckles across the nose of the handsome bandit. To be continued …

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29

  I went to Silver Lining straight from luncheon, following Mrs. Rattle's instruction to “come early.” It was not until I started up her path that I realized I had left behind the customary loaf of corn bread! (It was not upon the table when I came home. I wonder that Mrs. Goodhand hasn't scolded me.)

  The day was chilly but bright. I found her sitting on a wicker chair in the front garden, wrapped in the red cloak, with her face tipped toward the sun like a buttercup.

  “Isn't sunshine the loveliest blessing on the planet?” she said, purring almost. “After three days without it, I must now replenish my spirit.”

  “Do you refer to your new job?” I asked. “Is it not what you hoped?”

  She opened one eye in my direction, keeping her face tilted upward.

  “It is unbearably tedious, suffocating, and unpleasant.” She leaped up and extended her fingers for my inspection.

  I could see how red and chapped they were, as if she had been scrubbing a whole castleful of floors.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “It's the salt,” she said, “from turning the cheese curds for hours on end. The salt eats away under the nails. The other girls have given me a salve to soothe them, but it calms the skin for only a short while.” She began to pace the garden path, looking anxious.

  “I – I'm sorry, Mrs. Rattle. I forgot to bring the corn bread for the ducks.”

  “Ah, well,” she said. “But you are here.”

  “Yes,” I said, though she continued to move about without looking my way. Had she noticed my incivility at the post office and was paying me back?

  “The factory work is harder than I expected,” she admitted, sounding tired. “I knew it would be hard, but –” She flapped her hand as if giving up. “Ah, well. I mustn't complain. It will not be my whole life as it is for others. Such circumstances are set before us as one more trial to overcome.”

  I did not disguise my surprise at these words; she glanced at me and burst out laughing. “Why, Mable Riley! You think I am transformed into the Reverend Scott? I do not mean ‘set before us’ by God! No, indeed, far worse than that! Misery in the workplace is a man-made obstacle created for women of little means.”

  Oh dear, I thought. She might as well be Reverend Scott, for she fills her sermons with as many words as he does!

  She did not invite me into the cottage to-day. I stayed only a short while longer in the garden and then walked home, most unsatisfied. As I came along the Elgin Road, I noticed Elizabeth lingering some way behind me. I stopped at the turn to see if she might catch up, but she darted off across the field instead.

  I know not what to think of Elizabeth. If she weren't so bad tempered, her quick wit and cleverness would make her a good companion. Perhaps she is so self-absorbed there is simply no room for me.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1

  This has been a black day, which I do not think is a good omen for the month of October. It began with burnt porridge, which was my doing, as Mrs. Goodhand asked me to stir while she went to the cellar for syrup. I hurried upstairs to retrieve my schoolbooks but did not return in time to prevent a scorched pot. It made a disgusting breakfast for all the household, but I pretended not to notice and ate mine up with exaggerated pleasure.

  Viola puckered up her mouth as if it were full of poison and did not change her face all through the walk to school.

  If Elizabeth had not ignored me in the cloakroom, I might have warned her of my sister's mood. But as she has shown no inclination for friendship, I left her unknowing. She spoke impertinently to Viola within minutes of the morning bell and was swiftly reprimanded.

  “You will be detained after lessons to-day, Elizabeth,” my sister announced, “doing every chore I can devise for your improvement.”

  “What makes you think that chores will improve me?”

  Oooh, I thought, this girl has nerve!

  Viola's chin seemed to sharpen with her anger. “You will also Elizabeth? Stop jiggling. You are trying my patience to the utmost.”

  “Yes, Miss Riley”

  “Repeat after me: ‘I will not defy the teacher in manner or in word.’”

  “I will n
ot defy the teacher in manner or in word.” Elizabeth's manner was decidedly defiant, which Viola chose to ignore.

  “You have the words correct. You will write that sentence five hundred times and present me with the pages tomorrow morning. Now, class, the lesson continues.

  My satisfaction in seeing Elizabeth punished lasted only until the reading hour, however.

  The children were reading my new verse for the first time. Ellen went first. “‘When Frank awoke, he heard a roar. It was so loud, it shook the floor.’”

  Then Irene. “‘He trem … trem … bled,’ oh! Trembled! ‘As he listened more. It surely was a din … dine … dinosaur!’”

  The children began to giggle. Now it was Frank's turn. “‘A … along … the hall, Frank … cr … crep … crept … with … care. A … a … lar … ar … med …’”

  “Alarmed,' Frank! Alarmed!'” Ellen burst in.

  “What are you reading, Frank?” Viola had appeared without warning.

  “It's a poem, miss.”

  “What poem is it, Frank?”

  “Mable made it, miss.”

  “The words in the book were dull, Miss Riley,” volunteered Ellen, eager to fill in the story. “So Mable wrote new words for us. They're very funny, miss. About Frank's father.” She had read ahead.

  “We are not in school to be funny, Ellen. We are in school to read the words in the book, dull or not.” She took the page from Ellen and scanned it silently, her cheeks reddening and her lips pinched together.

  “Don't be angry,” I pleaded. “It was only in fun, Viola, really.”

  She glared at me. “That's Miss Riley, if you please.”

  “I don't please,” I said, though right away wished I hadn't, for her nostrils nearly split from quivering.