by Laer Carroll
Margaret Simmons again called someone to take over the counter top and led Mary back into the laundry area. It included a big room with tables where perhaps three dozen girls worked, all of them young teens down to children perhaps six years old. There were also storage rooms and several smaller rooms where additional work was done. Mary smelled a wonderful miscellany of strange scents, cleaning compounds of various kinds no doubt.
At one room they stopped where a young woman with straight deep red hair and creamy skin worked at a table. Mistress Simmons waited until the woman finished some very finicky work with a long beautiful dress of dark blue shimmering silk.
When the woman got up and carefully hung up the dress Margaret introduced the two of them and asked her to show Mary to the dormitory and get her settled in.
"Welcome to the Society of Friends, Mary," the pastor's wife said, then briskly left her.
Bridget had been examining Mary. Now she smiled at her and led her out the back door and across the square there. This contained a few small trees, a well, some shoulder-high boxes which seemed to be storage bins, a huge pile of firewood under an open-air shed, and a coal bin. There was also a big packed-clay rectangle that might be a play area.
Mary hoped so. She had always felt that children should do more than work, that their excess energy should be expended in play. This had occasioned some of her first serious fights with her husband, which included a good deal of shouting and some creative flinging of kitchen implements by Mary — carefully chosen not to break when they, as she intended, just barely missed Timothy.
Her husband had taken off his belt at that, the first time, which Mary thought an unfair advantage since he was twice her size. She had reminded him that a woman who could expertly carve a pig would have no trouble applying a knife to a man.
That, plus the knowledge that Mary had brothers at least as big as he, had been why that was the last time he had ever offered violence to Mary.
One of the two big two-story buildings that made up the back side of the square missionary compound was the girls' dormitory, the other the boys' dorm.
The top floor of the girls' dorm contained living quarters for the unmarried women of the mission. On the first floor was a large room divided into four equal-sized areas by two crossways aisles. It was filled with beds for the orphaned girls. There was a room for preparing and serving food, another for bathing and toiletry, and smaller ones for storage. There were also a few tiny private rooms for the senior girls.
Bridget led Mary to a set of dressers build into one wall of the large bedroom. There she had Mary leave her possessions, which Mary did, folding up the deerskin pack and tucking it behind everything.
"What's this?" said Bridget, picking up the book of fairy tales that Mary had rescued from an abandoned house. The first and last thirds of the book were gone and the rest weathered and warped. Flipping through it, Bridget read a paragraph here and there, then returned the book to the dresser.
"You'll be able to read all sorts of books here. The mission has a lending library for everyone who lives here."
"Oh, goody!" said Mary, clapping her hands and almost jumping up and down. She did not have to pretend girlish joy. Reading had long been a passion of hers .
Shelves built into another wall were where the bed-clothes could be gotten. Loading up Mary with a set of bed-clothes and taking her to one of the beds, which she said would be Mary's, Bridget showed Mary how to make the bed the right way. Mary observed and approved. She would not have done it much differently.
Back at the laundry Mary was set to work. She was started out with simple tasks, such as heating and carrying water, lighting and extinguishing fires. In the process she met a number of the other orphans.
That night she met the rest of the girls, except for whose who lived in homes where they had jobs as domestic servants or as tutors. Mary would meet most of those at the weekly worship service. She was issued two sets of clothing and some other essentials, including a bible.
When Mary exclaimed at owning such an expensive item, a young blond girl with a superior air told her that it was not that expensive, given the new modern printing presses.
"And," the girl said, "is not our spiritual growth worth any price?"
Mary nodded in a considering way, secretly amused by the blonde's precocity. One of her daughters had been the same way. And turned out all right, too.
That night and the next morning Mary had a simple but good meal, prepared by a rotating kitchen staff in the dormitory. Every girl was required to learn how to cook. They also learned how to shop for food, which they did weekly in groups. Having the orphans do activities like this not only saved the staff of the mission from doing them but also was educational. Mary approved; it was what she had done with her children.
Mary quickly settled in and worked hard and well. Soon she was taught simple skills such as making soap, which she knew how to do, of course, though she did not let on. This and other skills she had from her previous life helped begin building a reputation for catching on quickly.
From making soap she graduated to making "saponaceous lye," which was just lye that was partly soap. It both cleaned and bleached linens and other off-white or stained cloth.
She did not know why they did not just come straight out and say " soapy lye" but she went along with it. Anyway, she liked the sound of the strange word. Sometimes she would whisper it to herself "say-po-NAY-see-us."
As the days went by Mary came to see that the mission was not like the orphanages described in those depressing stories by Charles Dickens. For instance, the Quakers taught specialized skills to any laundry workers who had mastered the basics. The Friends were not operating a sweat shop but an educational institution meant to give orphans useful professional experience.
Mary was one of those willing to study the advanced topics. She learned how to clean lace, linens, sarcenets, lawn, and tiffanies. Silk was a very advanced topic, there being different ways to clean white and to clean colored silks. Colored silks required four different variations, one for pink, rose, and lemon colors, a second for blues and purples, a third for black, and yet a fourth for red or rusty-black silks. Silk was very expensive and a bit delicate, so only the very best laundry workers were allowed to clean them.
Mary also learned the many special kinds of cleaning materials, including furze blossoms burnt to ash, gum arabic, starch, tobacco-pipe clay, liquid blue, French chalk, oil of vitriol, pearlash, archil, bullock's gall, benzine, boiled logwood, solution of tin, and (of all things) bread crumbs.
It did not take long for Mary to see how a laundry woman could make lots of money by starting her own business. Of course, she would have to partner with some man, since it was nearly impossible for a woman to own her own business.
The Quakers had ways of encouraging such entrepreneurial thinking. Advanced workers were given a tiny allowance which they could use for anything. And in later years this encouragement paid off; it was not unusual for grateful alumni of the mission school to contribute to its upkeep.
The Quakers also taught other domestic and mechanical arts besides laundry and cooking and cleaning, always through practical experience as well as classroom work.
Sunday was the day of worship and rest for the mission. The church service was almost achingly simple. It made her miss the rich ritual of the Catholic church that her family had attended in Ballyvaughan, the beautiful stained glass window that glowed like heaven when the sun shown through it, and the beautiful vestments of the priest.
Still, Mary did not think at bottom that it was too different from what took place in a Catholic church. It was still about a man in a pulpit preaching to an audience.
What was different was the fellowship afterwards where different people testified to their spiritual growth. Quakers believed in an inner light which was, at least a little, different for everyone. You were supposed to cultivate it, to let it guide you to do the right action. This freedom was exactly opposite to the way
Mary had been taught, which was that someone else knew better than you what was right, and that this right was always the same regardless of circumstance. It gave her much to think about.
Of course, returning from the dead rather than going on to Heaven also gave her much to think about!
At noon Sundays there was a feast. Each weekend a different group of orphans was responsible for preparing this, and they took much thought and pride in doing a good job.
But the big moment for Mary was after the meal, when the mission library was opened for several hours. Each week one of the younger members of the Friends staff presided over it, checking out books and helping students find books.
When Mary walked into the room the first time she was literally staggered. Holding onto the door jamb, she just stared. There were hundreds of books here!
Two or three other orphans entered, jostling her a bit. This woke her up and she entered as well. After a moment of standing inside the door she got her mental equilibrium back and began examining the books in the shelves on each wall.
She quickly saw that her impression of large numbers of books was a bit false. Some shelves held books which were duplicates and seemed to be for the several classes that were taught at the mission. These were thin with cheap covers and some of them were battered or written in or both.
Balancing that were the books in a locked case just behind the librarian's desk. These were leather-bound with beautiful, sturdy pages, some of them illustrated. One of the books had a lacy illustration on the cover that was made of silver.
Mary's breast and brain were so full of joy that she was nearly delirious. She exerted her extrahuman body control and instantly calmed enough to examine the books more closely.
Before she knew it the afternoon had flown and she was agonizing over which of three books she wanted to check out. She finally chose The Heir of Redclyffe, only because it was written by a woman, Charlotte Mary Yonge.
She had been told but never believed that women wrote books. What a marvel this modern world was becoming, what with the fast printing presses and women writing books and all! The next thing you knew there would be steamships that swam underwater or in the air!
Mary read till it was time for lights out. She did the same the next night.
The third night as she was reading The Heir in her bed the snotty little blond girl came up to her.
"What are you reading?"
Mary showed it to the little girl, whose name it turned out was Barbara. "They tease me sometimes and call me 'Barbarous.' But it is Barbara," she said.
Mary thought that the little girl's alternate name might be more apropos but kept silent.
"What's it about?" the little girl said.
"Well, it's about two cousins, Guy and Phillip. Guy has a bad side but Philip is worse, and they both like Amy ..."
"Does anybody get killed?"
"I don't know yet. I've just started. But I don't think so."
Barbara climbed up on the foot of the bed. "Maybe it gets better. Read to me."
Mary smiled to herself but frowned at Barbara. "You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know."
"Of course you can. That's a stupid thing to say."
"Then why don't you say the honey word? It's 'please.'"
Barbara frowned at that but she understood instantly and gave a patently false sweet smile. "Please read to me."
"This is too long to read before lights out. I have a better story for tonight."
She got up and went to her drawer in the dressers built into the wall and swapped Yonge's book for her bedraggled fairy tale book.
By the time she had returned to bed and settled herself cross legged there were three more little girls ready to listen to a story. They sat or lay on the floor, however. Evidently none of them wished to contest the foot of the bed with Barbara.
Mary began reading. The text was often blotched or blackened beyond recognition, but Mary knew the story well. She did make a few strategic changes to the story and expanded it a little.
"Once upon a time there was a little orphan duckling ...."
Before she had gone more than a score of sentences more girls had arrived, sitting or lying on the floor or neighboring beds. Not all of them were little girls, either.
Mary started over, reading just as she had learned to read with her children. She varied the pace and tone of her voice, used different voices for different characters, spoke loudly at some spots and almost whispered at others, paused at several spots.
There were several satisfied sighs when she finished the story with "... and the ugly little orphan duckling was a majestic swan. The end."
Mary looked around at a satisfied audience, including Barbara, who was evidently not too disappointed that nobody had gotten killed. And including Bridget, who was leaning against the wall. She had turned off all but one of the kerosene lamps positioned high up at the four corners of the big room, but left the last lamp on till the end of the story.
Bridget clapped her hands then and said "Light's out! Everyone in bed."
Everyone scrambled for their beds, trailing an occasional "Thank you!" Mary pinched out the candle in the holder mounted on the bed's headboard and settled snugly into her bedclothes. Candle scent accompanied her into sleep.
The next night and the next the girls expected her to read to them. Mary finally declared that she would do that only once a week. There were instant protests, Barbara's being the loudest. Mary finally let herself be bargained down to twice a week, which was exactly what she had intended when she had made her announcement.
The Quakers also gave all orphans classes in reading, writing, arithmetic, and very basic history and geography. Mary already knew all the basic material.
However, she did not want to seem like a smart-aleck and pretended to know less than she did. She let herself be placed in the classes appropriate, not to her knowledge, but to her age. This now seemed about 15.
She quickly rose to top of the reading and writing classes and was given permission to study independently in literature. However, she let herself stay in the medium-level math class. It would be too attention-getting for her to excel in an area that boys naturally did.
One day she slipped up.
The teacher had given a long arithmetic problem to the class, with several terms. Mary was studying an algebra book she had checked out from the library and glanced up long enough to read and quickly solve the problem. She had always been good in arithmetic. A woman had to be when she went to market or she would cheat herself if no one else did. Since her death she had become even better. The powers which kept her body perfectly healthy and let her be superhumanly strong and efficient when she wanted to be worked on her mind as well.
She instantly figured the answer in her head and chalked it onto her slate and returned to her book. She was fascinated by the idea of a variable. She thought of it as a little pot that could hold any one of a range of numbers. Even more interesting were formulas, which were made of variables separated by arithmetic operators, and equations with formulas separated by an equals sign.
She was warned by an unusually silent class and glanced up. The teacher, a young man named Edward Timmons, was looking at her. He was an American Indian, a round man with long coarse black hair, very tanned skin, a big nose. He spoke English with an American accent like all the other Quakers, only perhaps a little more precisely. Unlike the stoic stereotype of an Indian, he had a boyish face which smiled often. He was not smiling now.
"You do not seem to be working on the problem, Mistress McCarthy."
"No, sir. I finished it."
"That was very fast. What is the answer?"
Mary read it off. Mister Timmons shook his head.
"I am afraid that is wrong. Perhaps if you would pay more attention to the class and less attention to your book you would do better."
The class, mostly boys, laughed at this. Mary's cheeks burned as she blushed. She instantly squelched the extra blood
flow to her face, frowning meanwhile at the problem on the blackboard. No, she was right. He was wrong.
Her brow relaxed as she realized what had happened. Meanwhile the laughter had died down. Mr. Timmons was frowning at the class. With his face a frown was very impressive. She lifted her hand and spoke up.
"Mister Timmons, I see where the problem is. Your seven looks like a two." Then she gave the right answer.
"Yes, that is correct, Mistress McCarthy. I apologize. Continue as you were but stay after class."
The teacher gave the class a last long problem. While he was waiting for everyone to do it he did some figuring of his own. Mary guessed he was computing the answer the way she had first done.
After class Mary stayed in her seat, ignoring the whispers and snickers of several of her classmates as they filed out with sidelong glances at her. Mr. Timmons came to her and sat in one of the seats beside her, glancing at the book she was reading.
"How long have you been holding back, Mistress McCarthy?"
She looked down at her hands, back up at him. "From the first."
"And why?"
"Boys do better at mathematics than girls, and they get mad if you do better than them."
"I see. I understand. But that would mean that you are ignoring the gifts God gave you. That you are listening to them and not Him. Perhaps you would think about that in the next few days."
Mary needed little time that night to remember that she was after all 53 years old, despite the apparent age of her body, and that the boys were just that: boys.
The next week she was promoted to the advanced math class.
The people who'd created and who ran the Friends' Kilrush orphanage had come to Ireland from America. This puzzled Mary. Surely that country had plenty of orphans too.
But Parson Simmons and his wife had been taken away from Ireland when quite young. Perhaps they'd been moved by simple nostalgia. This could be a powerful force, as Mary well knew. She'd had many wonderful experiences since dying and leaving her old home. Still, as two nights ago when she'd suddenly remembered washing a dish in her awful old kitchen, she occasionally felt a sharp pang of loss.
