Revenge on the Fly

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I’m starving, Da,” I told him as we shuffled through the tall halls. The footsteps of the hundreds of our fellow passengers echoed against the high ceilings. How many were arriving from another land, like us?

  “We’ll stop here then,” Father said, directing me over to the small corner diner in the station. “Just something light, mind. We don’t want to spoil our appetites for the feast Charlie surely has planned for us.”

  Or run out of money, I thought. We ordered sweet buns and tea.

  Sitting on a spinning stool, sipping and eating, I carefully held the seat still by bridging one foot against the counter. No more movement if I could help it.

  “One last train ride and we’ll be there,” Father told me as he laid down some money to pay the bill.

  “How long, Da?”

  “An hour and a bit, no more, I promise.”

  I stayed awake for the last leg, counting trees until I lost count. One last beautiful lake, and then through a long dark tunnel.

  “This is it.” Father patted my knee.

  Back under the open sky, the train chugged slowly to a halt. I peered through the window hoping to see Uncle Charlie in the huddle of people waiting. No luck.

  “Our boat was delayed a day by the fog, don’t forget. We may have to go find him,” Father told me.

  He hoisted down his large black suitcase and I struggled with the brown one that used to belong to Mum. We stepped into the hot sun and crowds, heard the familiar clackity-clack of hooves and I breathed in the smell of steaming manure. Ah, horses. Much better than musty life jackets. Not so different from London, then. My feet rested on firm and steady ground, this time for good I hoped.

  I peered around. The station was a huge gray stone building with a tall round tower. Another castle-like building. Sure, weren’t there more of those in Canada than in England and didn’t that bode well! Even ordinary travelers got to live like kings.

  As I watched, a trolley car stopped at the tracks, let some passengers off and took on some more. No Uncle Charlie among them.

  I shielded my eyes and searched some more. He should have been easy to spot. Like Father, he was a big man with large feet and large hands who stood tall over the crowds, but unlike him, Uncle Charlie had red hair.

  Something jabbed me in the back and I spun around. Uncle Charlie? No. It was the tip of an umbrella belonging to a woman with three young children bunched into her large skirt.

  I swished a few flies away from my face.

  Someone knocked my head. Again I turned. This time, it was a short, dark-haired man with a large sausage, waving hello to his family. I tried to move out of his way and bashed one of the woman’s children with my suitcase. “Sorry,” I said as the boy bawled to his mum.

  On the far end of the platform another man held a sign: Laborers Wanted. No Irish.

  I stared for a moment. In London they didn’t like the Irish either, but this was a new land. Nodding toward the man with the sign, I grumbled. “You said it would be different here.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Will. I don’t need a job; Charlie has one for me.” Father stepped down into the road alongside of the platform and I followed, not wanting to lose him in the crowd. We walked toward a boy near the station who was waving a newspaper in the air and calling, “Read all about it. Looking glasses banned from the Titanic.”

  Father bought one from him. The story was about the investigation of the ship’s sinking.

  “Do you think anyone on the Empress had binoculars?” I asked him. Would they have even helped in that fog we sailed through the last few days, I wondered.

  “Oh, to be sure. They never make the same mistake twice, Will. We were perfectly safe.”

  “Mind the wagon,” a man in a uniform warned us.

  I dodged out of the way, careful with my suitcase this time. The man guided the wagon, piled high with trunks and bags, to a horse-drawn carriage parked at the side of the platform. Another carriage already loaded with luggage and travelers pulled away. Slowly, all the people seemed to drain from the platform. But still no red hair anywhere.

  Father dug his fists into his hips and shook his head, frowning. “Surely he read about the shipping delays. He must have just been held up.”

  We stood all by ourselves now, track stretching in front and behind of us as far as the eye could see. It felt so lonesome and endless.

  “Good day to you,” a voice called. A man jumped from the train waving. Mr. McNiven!

  I was even glad to see the smelly old grump.

  “Do you have a position yet?” Father asked him.

  “Not here. I’m traveling on. Headed for a farm out west.”

  “But you worked the docks.”

  “Did. Don’t want to anymore.” Like Father, Mr. McNiven had been forced to strike for higher wages since the middle of May.

  No one dared to cross picket lines, no matter if they had mouths to feed and bills to pay. If they tried they were called scabs and sometimes even beaten. With no further money coming in, Father knew it was our last chance to leave. He had booked our passages and Mr. McNiven had done the same.

  Mr. McNiven threw up his hands. “In Winnipeg they’re begging for farm hands, so that’s what I’m going to be. You?”

  “My brother has a post for me in a livery. I’ll be doing blacksmith work too. He should be here any moment.” Father peered out into the streets. A wagon rattled by us.

  Mr. McNiven raised his eyebrows as he looked around. “If he isn’t here by now, do you suppose he’s really coming?”

  “Of course! I have his letter right here saying so.” Father’s brow furrowed as he patted his shirt pocket. “Well now. That’s odd.” He rooted in his trouser pockets.

  “Why don’t you get back on the train with me?” Mr. McNiven asked. “You can stake a claim for land if you like. Raise your own horses instead.”

  Father shook his head. “He’ll be here for us any minute. Besides, we need to live in the town, close to schools. I want a proper education for William.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you.” Mr. McNiven shook his head as the train whistled. “Just want to stay put myself. This country is too big, if you ask me.” He climbed back on and as the train pulled out he saluted Father from the window.

  We stood alone on the platform, four thousand miles away from home. Not a soul here we knew except for Uncle Charlie. Even the paperboy was leaving.

  “You there,” Father called to him. “Can you direct us to a good place to eat?

  The boy grinned and pointed. “Down James Street over there on King. Look for the Waldorf Hotel. My mother works there. They make great apple pie.”

  “Thank you.” Father raised his cap. Then he turned to me. “We’ll leave word for your uncle with the ticket clerk. He’ll likely be waiting for us by the time we finish our meal.”

  While Father went in to speak to him, I stood watch over our suitcases, all the while searching for Uncle Charlie. Father took forever but still no one came for us. “Come along then,” he said as he stepped out of the station. “We’ll feel better after we’ve eaten.”

  We walked in the direction the paperboy had shown us. The street was quiet now that all the wagons had pulled away. The sun felt hot on my head but we didn’t have far to go before we spotted the Waldorf. Sure, wasn’t this hotel almost as grand as that Château in Quebec; four stories high and arches over the doors. We couldn’t have enough money to stay here. I didn’t think we had enough to dine here either. Still, my morning hunger had returned. The sweet bun had only been a stop gap after all.

  Inside, a large chandelier fair blinded me but Father led me to the dining room and told me to order whatever I wanted. Then, over a plate of hot roast beef with potatoes and gravy, he read the newspaper. “Sure, isn’t this the land of opportunity. There are seven jobs listed here.” He tapped it with the back of his hand. “Mind, most are asking for boys.”

  “I can work, Father.”

  “No!” he said sharply t
hen grabbed my hand. “I promised your mum,” he said more gently, and smiled. “Don’t worry. Charlie will show his sorry self.” Father called to the waitress and she came around. “Can we have some coffee and some of your wonderful apple pie?”

  Father’s smile and the apple pie made me feel like there wasn’t anything we couldn’t conquer together. As we ate, he circled rooming-house adverts in the paper. “It’s getting late, and dashed if I remember Charlie’s address without that letter.”

  Uncle Charlie. I remembered the day he left—I cried harder than when my mother died. But he had taken my chin in his hand and looked directly into my eyes. “I have to do this, Will. But we’ll be together again. I’ll come and get you myself if yer old man doesn’t bring you to Canada.”

  So why wasn’t he here, I wondered. Why hadn’t he at least left word somewhere? What if we never found him?

  Finally, Father folded the paper and stood up. “Right. Off we go.” He left some coins on the counter.

  Back at the train station there was still no Uncle Charlie outside, nor any word from him inside, so we headed off. “Can you manage?” Dad asked as I struggled with my suitcase. “I’d like to save the wagon fare for room and board.”

  I nodded and we walked, Father looking back all the while. “’Tis a fine joke your uncle is playing on us. We owe him one for this.” He sighed. “Let’s try the boarding houses over this way, shall we?”

  At the first house, Father rapped out a tune on the door. “We’ve come about a room,” he explained to the tiny grayhaired lady peering from behind her door.

  “All full up,” she said, closing it quickly.

  “But there’s no sign in the window, Da,” I said.

  Father shrugged his shoulders and we continued on.

  At the second house a young girl answered. “Sorry. Too late. Happens whenever the train pulls in.” At the third and fourth houses the answer was the same. None of them had signs in the window either.

  “Is it because we’re Irish?” I asked, wondering how the rooming-house people could even tell when we’d scarce had a chance to get a word in.

  “No, I don’t think so. This part of town is Irish. Corktown, it’s called. The last one listed here says it’s on Park Street.” Father’s brow furrowed as he looked around. “Excuse me kind sir,” he called to a man walking by. “Can you direct us to this address?”

  The man tipped his hat and squinted at the newspaper advert. “That’s over near Central School, back that way.” He pointed up the hill.

  “Thank you, thank you!” Father clasped the man’s hand and shook it. Then he turned to me. “Near Central School! Your Uncle Charlie said Central was the largest public school in Upper Canada. And the room is only a dollar per week. It’s like it was meant to be!”

  Full of new hope, we retraced our steps quickly past the train station and up the hill till we saw a large, fine building.

  “That’s the school!” Father exclaimed. “This street must be Park”—he pointed—“and that’s the place.”

  Tall with dirty red bricks and a long flight of steps to a gray door, the fifth rooming house seemed to be the ugliest building in the area. As we climbed the blistered wooden steps, the boards creaked as if in pain. I pointed to a fly struggling in the spider web that stretched across the front window.

  “It will have to do. Just for a little while. Till we find Charlie.” Father knocked on the door once gently, and then again, harder.

  I couldn’t walk any more. My arms felt stretched out of their sockets as they had both taken a turn with Mum’s brown bag. I wiped at the sweat from my brow. The soles of my feet burned.

  No one answered.

  Finally, a thin witch-like woman opened the door and scowled at us. Yes, she had one room left. “Une chambre,” she told us.

  Relieved, I set my suitcase on the porch even as she stared me up and down and shook her head. “Pas de garçons. No boys.”

  My father’s grin dropped off his face and for the first time that long day, I could see that he was as weary and as frightened as I. He snapped back in an instant. “Ah, but give us a moment, will you, dear woman?” Removing his hat, Father took a deep breath, smiled, and bowed. “Bonjour,” he started, “je m’appelle Arthur Alton. This is my son, Will, a good lad.” He reached out his hand to shake hers. “And you are?”

  “Madame Depieu.” She took his hand, but she shook her head at the same time. “The boys, ils font trop de bruit et la saleté. How do you say this in English? They make too much noise and dirt.”

  “My Will’s different,” Father said, patting my shoulder as he spoke. “Since his mum died, he’s all grown up. My mate, as it were. Don’t you worry about him at all.”

  “Bien non.” She touched her pointed nose and I worried she was casting a spell to make us disappear. Instead, almost as bad, she began closing the door.

  Just as fast, I stuck my foot in front of it. I had no idea what I was doing, but to be sure I wouldn’t be the cause of us not having a roof over our head. I stared at the fly in the spider’s web, trapped with nowhere to go. Didn’t I know just how he felt? I looked up at Father and he winked at me. For his sake I wouldn’t cry.

  Instead, I straightened my shoulders and made myself stand tall. Our dream of a new life in Canada started today, right this moment at this rooming house. If I could make it past that immigration doctor, I would make it past this woman. “Please, Madame. I can clean for you. I helped my mother all the time.”

  She tilted her head, her chin jabbing at me. “Vraiement?”

  I nodded and tried to smile the way Father always did—big and broad and as bright as the sun.

  Madame Depieu sighed. “Eh bien. I give you a chance, since we have the one room. This week you can stay. Two dollars for the both of you. I make the breakfast and the souper. One chance and that is all!” She huffed as she swung open her door.

  Father wiped his shoes carefully, and I did exactly the same. I tried to step lightly as I followed him in. Only one chance and at double the regular price. Crash! The suitcase hit the stair rail.

  Madame Depieu’s eyebrows shot up like broomsticks. “Fait attention!” she commanded.

  “Sorry.” Mine wasn’t the only gouge out of the baseboard running up the stairs, and greasy spots along the ivy wallpaper showed where others had groped their way along the wall, but I wasn’t about to point that out. I wasn’t going to do anything to make her change her mind about us staying. I didn’t touch the wall myself.

  “I have the modern conveniences.” Madame Depieu said as we reached the top of the stairs. She pointed to the far end of the hall. “Over there is the water closet you share with the other men. Your room is on the side.”

  A water closet! As soon as she left us, I had to peek in this amazing little room. On the floor sat something that looked like a large chamber pot. Above it hung a box, and from the box dangled a chain. They’d had one at the mansion Mum had worked at in London, but I’d never visited it. At our flat, we’d used an outhouse. “Imagine not having to go outside in the cold, Father!”

  He smiled. “Ah, it will be grand, Will.”

  Our room was small and hot and smelled of vinegar and onions, and the flowered wallpaper was water stained around the window. Next room over some men laughed loudly and the wall thumped. Sure, couldn’t grown men make all the noise they wanted. Madame Depieu wouldn’t toss them out.

  Father said we should turn in early—it had been a long and tiring day—so I used the wonderful toilet for the first time. It roared and whooshed when I pulled the chain. Later, as I squeezed up close to Father in the small bed, it roared and whooshed as the other men used it, one by one, and the pipes gurgled long after. The noise made it hard to sleep and I lay awake wondering about Uncle Charlie. Could I last in this house till he turned up? Set your mind to it, a voice inside me said. I wanted to think it was Mum. “I will do it,” I replied. I will be so good that Madame Depieu will wonder what she did without me.


  Chapter 3

  First thing after breakfast, Father pulled me outside. “What a fine school you will be attending!” We both looked toward the two-story oatmeal-colored building, the one we’d spotted yesterday on the way here. A tower stood at the front flanked by two walls of windows.

  “This is it, my boy!” Father clapped his hand on my shoulder excitedly. “Your mother would be so pleased. Such a wonderful opportunity and so close.”

  We crossed the street together and climbed the cement steps to the large oak door, removing our hats as we stepped into the building. Father asked at the office for the principal and was introduced to Mr. Morton, a tall mustached man with gray eyes. I shook his hand as well, and he squeezed mine too hard. Still, his silver hair hung in his eyes like the mane of a horse and somehow that made him seem friendlier to me. Didn’t our whole family get along well with horses, after all.

  We sat down in front of Mr. Morton’s desk. “Young William should be in junior fourth form, correct?” he asked.

  Father and I both nodded.

  “Has he had his smallpox vaccination?” Mr. Morton asked.

  “Before we left England,” Father answered.

  “Wonderful. Your son will be in good hands.” Mr. Morton stood, and it was clear my time with my father was over.

  Before he left, Father handed me a bag. “Your lunch. The witch made it for you.” He smiled that wonderful grin that promised gold at the end of the rainbow. “I’m going to get a job today…so I will not be around to eat with you.” He chucked me under the chin. “And you’re going to get an education. It’s what your mum would have—” He broke off and started again. “It’s what your mother wants for you. Do well.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Father.” I felt a pang at seeing his back as he headed out the door. School had never given me any problem back in England. I knew my numbers and letters. Everything would go just fine here too. But Father and I had been together night and day nigh on two weeks. What if he disappeared like Uncle Charlie? Then I would have no one left.

  Mr. Morton cleared his throat. “Well, my boy.” He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me.”