As soon as I was home from school, Mrs. Goodhand found work for me.
“We have run low on butter,” she said, and gave me a quart-sized pickling jar full of milk that I might make enough butter to carry us through supper and breakfast. I took it outdoors, thinking to watch twilight descend while I tizzied the jar.
So there I was, shaking about at the garden gate like a girl with fits, and who should happen by on his bicycle?
Tommy Thomas! I must have turned the colour of a stewed tomato. Though I stood rigid in an instant, it took me a full minute to find my tongue.
“Why, Tommy!” (As close to squealing as a trapped mouse). “Where might you be going?”
He peered at me through those bent-up spectacles and then grinned.
“I heard there was a dancing show at the Goodhand farm,” he said. “I came early for a front-row seat.”
“Oh, you!” I pretended to clunk him with the jar of nearly butter.
He had brought his new birthday copy of the Wonderful Wizard of Oz to exchange for my Treasure Island, which I have been performing to much acclaim at lunch recess.
When my milk was transformed, I quickly poured off the buttermilk and rinsed the butter. I added a trickle of carrot juice for colour and served Tommy one of Viola's biscuits smothered in minute-old butter before sending him on his way. I pray the taste erased the sight of me making it!
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2
“Mother,” said Alfred after luncheon, “you've had a difficult time of things and you look a bit peaked. I'm sure Viola wouldn't mind cooking the supper this once. Mable could help. Wouldn't that be a good way to keep her out of trouble?”
Mrs. Goodhand looked us over as if we had just met.
“Well, it might be nice at that, to be treated like a lady in my own home.”
“Have yourself a lazy afternoon,” said Alfred.
“There's a chicken waiting,” Mrs. Goodhand told Viola. “You know where to find the potatoes.”
Alfred winked at me and patted his stomach.
“I've been craving your sister's roast chicken with giblet gravy,” he whispered as his mother left the room.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3
Another Sunday gone and I did not visit Silver Lining.
“It's best that you stay home,” said Viola. “Nothing good has come from her direction yet.”
The sad truth is, I do not wantto go there. Am I a shivering coward? I cannot bring myself to seek out certain trouble.
Viola thinks I'm sulking, but it's not so simple as that. I am forlorn and thwarted. Like holding a pitcher full of feelings and having nowhere to pour.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7
I could not wait until Sunday. From school I walked to Mrs. Rattle's cottage despite having to carry my satchel full of books and spelling papers. It was dusk by the time I knocked upon her door.
“Mable Riley! How good to see you! I'm so glad you haven't been frightened off forever. Do come in. We are having an emergency meeting of the, er, Reading Circle.” She laughed and led me into the parlour, where Mrs. Watson and Miss Thomas were seated by the fire.
“Is it wise to have the child here?” asked Miss Thomas.
“She has shown us where her heart lies, has she not?” said Mrs. Rattle.
My heart, though, was heavy. On my journey there, I had imagined for us a reunion of great warmth, perhaps even giddiness. I had pictured us in an embrace of tearful rejoicing. We would drink lemonade out of crystal glasses and pop corn over the fire. I had forgotten she is a woman occupied with serious matters. She has no time for schoolgirl fancies. Thankfully, she could not read my mind and would not suspect my foolishness. I blush to think!
I bid myself to sit and pay attention to the conversation. And what should I discover but a plot for rebellion against the Bright Creek Cheese Company.
“There has recently been a strike at the Penning garment factory in Toronto, where the girls were going blind from sewing in bad light every day for twelve or fourteen hours,” explained Miss Thomas. “They stopped work for over two weeks, and finally the foreman agreed to hear their points.”
“Francis Forrest will not be expecting a rebellion from his brow-beaten girls,” Mrs. Rattle was saying. “We will have the advantage of surprise at least.”
My face must have expressed some of the distress I felt.
“Mable, you look as though you have something to say.”
“You may not want to hear it,” I said. “I know your complaints are justified, but my sister and I are boarders on the Goodhand farm. They have twenty cows and they sell their milk to Bright Creek.” I took a breath and rushed on. “No one should have to work as hard for so little pay as the girls. But it's not the farmers who should be punished. The Goodhands depend on the Forrests' factory. If work is disrupted there, it is they who will suffer. The milk will sour and they will lose custom. The farmers will be angry, not sympathetic to your cause.”
I had never said so much before. The ladies stared at me and then at one another.
“It's good you see more than one perspective, Mable Riley,” said Mrs. Rattle. “That is a sign of a maturing mind. All that you say is true, though we hope to have the farmers' support once they understand the situation. Sometimes we must perform a small wrong in order to do a great right. That is our justification. We are working toward a very great right.”
Ambler's Corners
November 7, 1901
Oh, Mable!
Quel scandale! How daring of you to cause a scene! Fancy entering a shouting match with a lady from the church committee! This is not the Mable I remember. Your sister must have wished to throttle you! Or drag you off to the doctor with suspicion of a brain fever! I hope you have recovered your reason by now and have returned to being the sensible Mable I know and love.
Though sensible does not describe your literary sketches, either! Where do you summon your ideas?! Our heroine digging out bullets and touching naked chests and whatever next?! Is your life catching up with your story or else the other way around?
Your spelling bees sound quite the entertainment.
Though you will not like me to say so, I think it might do you good to rely upon a team for your triumphs. There are times when humble pie should be digested. My news is quite tame. I received top marks in algebra (since you are not here to steal that spot) and a commendation for my report in French.
Jimmy Fender is carrying my books home from school each afternoon. There, I've told you! Please do not be jealous or try to win him back.
Your friend,
Hattie
P.S. If you smell this, do not imagine I have started to smoke. My brother put the writing paper into an empty cigar box my father has finished using.
I wish I had not told Hattie anything about the Harvest Social or Mrs. Rattle. She has made it all sound so sordid and silly. And as if I'd care about Jimmy Fender!
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8
Good news: Dottie Blau was ill to-day! And Cathy Forrest not present, of course, thanks to the evil lurking in Miss Riley's schoolhouse. The Commas maintained our (slight) lead. If I were wicked, I should feed Dottie a bowlful of castor oil next Thursday evening!
One of Tommy's words was beautiful, and he looked right at me while he spelled it (correctly)! I was certainly crimson-faced and dared not look his way again until dismissal. Poor Tommy would never win a blue ribbon for Best Looking, but he certainly is more clever and fun than anyone else.
PART THE TENTH
{THE TRUE MISSION}
Helena returned to the bandits' dwelling and cared for Tom throughout the night and the following day. He was fevered and raving, a condition brought on by his effort to prevent Helena from escaping.
She was a tender nurse, and when Tom recovered his senses, he was an obliging patient. From his sickbed, he instructed Feather how to prepare the evening meal of roast pork with onions and baked apples.
“Where did you learn to cook?” asked Helena in admiration as she
dressed his wound after supper.
“It was my job at the orphanage,” said Tom, “to help in the kitchen.”
“Orphanage?” she inquired softly.
“Why, yes,” said Tom. “That's where we all here became brothers. St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings.”
Helena was propelled to her feet by the swell of pity in her heart. “What? This whole band of train robbers began as motherless waifs?”
“Indeed,” said Tom. “'Tis the reason for our banditry as well as our bond. So great is our affection for the admirable woman who cared for us, Mama Tinker, that we are sworn to find the money she needs to carry on her good work.”
“How can the work be good if it is financed by villainy? Is there no better way?”
“As we are uneducated ourselves, train robbery is our only path to the quantity of gold required to save the lives of countless children. Sometimes we must perform a small wrong in order to do a great right.”
Helena was chastened by her mistaken judgment upon her hosts. Those she had thought to be fierce and greedy raiders were the kindest of men, motivated by gratitude to the loving woman who had raised a thousand children as her own.
“Most folks are thrilled to brag that they've been robbed,” continued Tom with a laugh. “They give up their trinkets with no great sorrow in exchange for a tale to tell.”
Helena thought briefly of her beloved moon-shaped brooch but then listened again to Tom as she wiped his brow with a cool cloth.
“Our trouble now,” he whispered, “is that St. Jerome's has grown too small to hold all of the orphans. We must find and purchase a new home.”
He closed his eyes.
“Hush now,” soothed Helena, her calming tones working their magic for only a minute before a distant rumble disturbed the quiet. Shouts of warning came from the other room.
“Saddle up! Away, boys!” called Harry.
Helena heard Pete and Feather rush out the back door to the horses. She hurried to the window, to see uniformed men on horseback galloping toward their door.
“Can you ride, Tom?” asked Joe.
“He mustn't!” cried Helena.
“I will,” said Tom, using his friend's arm for support as he stood.
“They're riding fast,” said Harry from the window watch. “We may be caught unless we fight.”
“No bloodshed,” ordered Joe.
“I will walk out and distract the soldiers while you make your escape,” cried Helena. “Go quickly! While you still have a chance!”
She pushed Harry toward the door. Her last view of Tom was of his pale face looking back over his shoulder at her.
Eight soldiers halted their steeds only a few yards from where Helena stood on the side porch, their eyes showing surprise at facing a woman.
“Greetings! How can I help you, gentlemen?” she called, trying to keep terror from colouring her voice. Every moment that she engaged them allowed her new comrades to escape a few feet farther away behind the cabin.
“We're hunting outlaws, ma'am,” said the lieutenant gruffly. “We have reason to believe this farmhouse is a refuge for dangerous train bandits.”
“Oh my!” said Helena.
“We'll have to ask you to stand aside so's we can take a look inside your house.” The men swung down from their saddles, but Helena stayed planted a moment longer.
“Can I get you fellows anything to drink?” she asked with a saucy tilt of her head. “Hot lemon, perhaps? Or tea?”
The soldiers brushed past her and stomped up the porch steps.
To be continued …
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13
Viola will scold me for another candle gone, but I must record all that happened here this night.
We had company after supper. Viola spied her through the window and cleverly excused herself before the knock came. I was not so quick-witted and was requested by Mr. Goodhand to open the door. Mrs. Forrest looked straight past me and surveyed the room.
“Mrs. Goodhand,” she said, ignoring the rest of us.
“Mrs. Forrest.” Mrs. Goodhand's voice was chill. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“A word, if you will? On the porch?” Mrs. Forrest cupped a hand around her words, indicating she had secret business.
“Well, no, I'm not inclined to be sitting outdoors in this weather,” said Mrs. Goodhand.
Mr. Goodhand scraped back his chair and stood up. “We'll leave you alone in here,” he said. “I've got a pig to look at.” He pulled his jacket from a hook and headed out to the barn, with Alfred at his heels.
That left me to be the thistle in her thumb. Mrs. Forrest pursed her lips.
“Please excuse me, Mrs. Goodhand,” I said. “I need to go upstairs to prepare my lessons for tomorrow.”
Mrs. Forrest snorted.
There came another knock upon the door and in came Elizabeth's mother, as she often does of an evening.
“It's good you're here, Mrs. Campbell,” said Mrs. Forrest. “This concerns your daughter as well as my own children.” She noticed me lingering by the newel post. “Go on, missy, up you go. You've no business here.”
I clomped my feet upon the steps and down the hallway to the door of our room, but crept back quickly to where I might overhear.
“… should be replaced,” Mrs. Forrest was saying, “before an incident occurs bearing grave consequences.”
“Elizabeth has never shown as much interest in her lessons as she has this fall or scored so well,” said Mrs. Campbell. “I have no objection to Miss Riley.”
“I will not support the dismissal of the schoolmistress because of her sister's high spirits,” said Mrs. Goodhand. “As misguided as Mable is at times, she is well intentioned. And Miss Riley has been most responsible in her efforts to control her. She is adamant that Mable no longer associate with the Widow Rattle, who worked for your husband. That way lies trouble.”
“Don't talk to me about trouble,” said Mrs. Forrest. “After all we've done for our hired hands, we never expected such ingratitude. But those indolent girls at the factory are about to learn the real meaning of trouble. They think they're so clever, with their pennants and their sign waving. Ha! We'll show them clever. There's nothing like a good conk on the head with a policeman's truncheon to know who's clever.”
“Surely not, Suzanna!” Mrs. Campbell sounded shocked.
“They'd be showing good sense to wear iron bonnets tomorrow. I won't say more than that. …” Her ghastly laughter, even more than the threat of her words, sent chills straight down my backbone.
“Mable?” Viola was calling me. I tiptoed back to answer her and shortly heard the door below, signaling our guest's departure.
I readied to retire, pondering all the while the devout belief that Mrs. Forrest holds about her own generosity. How is it that a person can blind herself to truth? Or and this is the frightening thought is it Mrs. Rattle and the factory women who are blind? Is everyone blind to what they do not wish to see?
Normally, it would not be an adventure to walk out the kitchen door to visit a neighbour a mile along the road. But I have discovered that an adventure is anything that makes your heart beat faster, as mine certainly did tonight!
The Goodhands retired early, as they always do, by 9:15. Alfred and Viola remained chatting together for some time after, until finally I urged Viola to come help sponge the hem of my skirt. Then, while she was at the privy, I pulled my nightdress over my clothing and snuggled beneath the quilt, tucking my stockinged toes under me so that Viola should not glimpse them when she came to bed.
It seemed forever before Viola's breaths were steady enough to convince me that she slept. At long last, I crept from the bed, pulled off my nightdress, and collected my boots from beside the bureau.
The stairs creaked, the floor creaked, the door creaked altogether enough creaking to send me into fits! I fumbled in the dark kitchen to tie my laces, listening above my thudding heart for wakeful Goodhands.
Outside, with a chilly wind
at my back, I set out briskly for Silver Lining. I was relieved to find the house still alight when I arrived. Mrs. Rattle wore a look of alarm when she answered my knocking and smiled uneasily.
“Mable Riley! Whatever are you doing here? You must be frozen to the marrow. Come in at once!”
The parlour was warm, the fire burning. Mrs. Rattle's hair was plaited for bed and she wore a black sateen wrapper.
“Mrs. Rattle, please excuse my disturbing you. I am delivering urgent news.”
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Forrest was a caller at the Goodhand farm this evening.”
“I pity Mrs. Goodhand.”
“She came to rally support to terminate my sister's contract.”
“Dreadful woman.”
“But, she spoke of a plan –”
“Yes?”
“She said there will be policemen at Bright Creek tomorrow, prepared to do battle! They've been instructed to beat the women if they insist on protesting.”
Mrs. Rattle flinched. “How much lower can they sink?”
“She laughed,” I told her. “Mrs. Forrest laughed and said the girls should wear iron bonnets.”
Mrs. Rattle took my hands in hers.
“Thank you, Mable, for coming out in the dark to tell me this.”
“You'll cancel the strike for tomorrow, won't you?”
She sighed and shook her head with a smile. “We have no choice. Or rather, we have made our choice. We will proceed with the strike.”
“But –”
“There is too much at stake to back down now.”
The moon was hidden behind clouds when I came out from Mrs. Rattle's. It was a longer journey home, not being able to see where I was stepping. Or perhaps I stumbled because I knew not where I next should travel on my life's road, if I may be permitted such a poetic allusion. I have tried this night to do good to rescue Mrs. Rattle from harm and have been rebuffed. Is she foolish or courageous? Have I done my best? And yet fallen short? Is there another path I have not seen that I might follow?
Mable Riley Page 12
