Flame and Ashes

by Janet Mcnaughton

  Mama has managed to dress much as she did before the fire, and Sarah and I wore everyday dresses without pinafores. Nettie keeps our clothing laundered and respectable, so no one seeing us for the first time would suspect our losses. A few women were standing in their doorways. Then I saw Susie’s mother, Mrs. Verge, but she was busy with her children and didn’t see me. I realized the Verges must have been here since the night of the fire. I tried to imagine such a large family living in one of these small sheds.

  Next we passed a group of men who regarded us with open resentment as they puffed on their pipes. “They think we have come to gawk at their misfortune,” Sarah whispered as we passed from one line of sheds to the next. Suddenly we found ourselves in the place the children had claimed for their playground. Some little girls were playing copyhouses with pieces of broken crockery and a doll that one of them must have kept with her the night of the fire. Others were skipping rope, and a group had formed a circle to play “Little Sally Saucer.” It was just as bare and dusty here as everywhere else, but more cheerful.

  As we passed some boys playing leapfrog, I recognized a little one who stood watching. “Look, Mama,” I cried, “there’s Georgie Ledwell!”

  Georgie took us to his mother, who was sitting on a chair in the shade cast by her shed, hemming a blanket. She was cheerful about her family’s prospects, telling us that Mr. Ledwell was already on the go at Courting Lane, working with a group of neighbourhood men who were helping one another rebuild in turn. “We hope to get clear of this place before the snow flies,” she said. “These tilts got no floors in them, they was put up in such haste.”

  Now Sarah is calling me to come for a walk so we can show our dear shopgirls around the neighbourhood.

  I will take up the story when we return.

  Monday, August 8th

  South Side Warehouse, just before dinner

  Life is so lively here now, I find it hard to settle down and write! But I am determined to finish this story.

  After we’d chatted with Mrs. Ledwell, she directed us to a small ring of tents near Rennie’s Mill Road, “where they got the single ladies.”

  As we approached, someone called, “Oh, Mrs. Winsor!” and a young woman rushed from one of the tents to grasp Mama’s hand. “Phoebe Dewling, Gloves,” she said, to save Mama the embarrassment of not knowing her name, and I remembered how Phoebe had helped me pick my new summer gloves, back when such things still mattered. She even dropped a little curtsey. I hoped no one saw this. Mama is not the queen, after all.

  Phoebe is a tall, thin girl with curly orange-coloured hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her long, narrow nose. She was kindly and high spirited in those golden days before the fire. But now, in spite of her nice manners, she was no longer one of Papa’s smart shopgirls. The print blouse she wore was so large the sleeves began below her shoulders, and the hem of her skirt was edged with dust. Her head and hands were bare and there were dark circles under her eyes. Phoebe took us to a blanket beside the tent. The lemonade delighted her, but when we declined to share some, she put it away for later.

  “I’m so glad we found you, Phoebe,” Mama said. “Are others here as well?”

  Phoebe knew Mama was asking about Papa’s crowd. “Three of us lives here, Mrs. Winsor, ma’am. Liza Tizzard and myself are both from Greenspond, but they had the diphtheria some bad there in the spring, so we’d rather take our chances here.” She went on to tell us that Liza was one of Mrs. Steele’s tailoresses. “God love Mrs. Steele,” she added. “Her little house over on Maxse Street is full to the brim with her girls. She offered to squeeze Liza in somehow, but Liza and myself has always been fast friends and she couldn’t bear leave me here.”

  Mama patted her hand and told her Liza sounded like a faithful companion.

  Phoebe nodded. “She is, Mrs. Winsor. She and Miss Rosy are over to the Relief Stores at the Parade Street Rink now. We hear they got some mattresses and we’re tired of sleeping on the ground.” Then she began to explain how difficult the relief system was, how beset with paperwork and waiting, both here at the Colonial Building at the edge of the park where the relief orders are handed out, then at the Parade Rink, where the relief is stored and distributed.

  As she explained, she grew more agitated. “It’s not a long walk from here to Fort Townsend, but they keeps you outside in all weather. Outside! No one can say why — there’s plenty of room in the curling rink. We take turns, lining up for hours and hours over there, but one of us always stays here to stand guard.” She lowered her voice. “You can’t blink in this place, Mrs. Winsor. Miss Rosy washed her one good blouse when they put up the first clothesline and it was gone five minutes later.”

  Mama asked Phoebe if they’d been sleeping here since the fire. She may have been trying to calm her by changing the subject, but the misery of living in the park was exposed at every turn. Phoebe told us they’d slept out under the open sky for the first few nights, until the tents had arrived. She wrung her hands and explained that families were given tilts first, so single girls might have to wait weeks for one.

  “People say, why don’t you ship out to Canada or Boston? We could get free passage, but none of us can bear the thought of leaving.” Phoebe’s sharp chin went up as she told us there was no respect for single, working women in the park, adding, “I can’t count the times we’ve been told we should find ourselves husbands.” When Miss Rosy complained to a Constabulary officer after her blouse disappeared, he’d said it would never have happened if she had a husband to protect her. “‘Plenty of able-bodied bachelors living in the park,’ he’d told her. ‘Take your pick.’” And everyone who’d gathered to listen just laughed.

  I could hardly believe my ears.

  “Could you imagine anyone talking like that to Miss Rosy before the fire?” Phoebe asked.

  She lowered her voice, although there was no one near, and told us Miss Rosy could have gone to live with people on her staff. “I think she stayed because she was sure young Mr. Waldegrave would come to her rescue,” she continued. “His people got a big, fine house just over on Monkstown Road. But next we heard, he’s off to Boston without so much as goodbye. Miss Rosy’s trying to keep her spirits up, same as Liza and me, but that laid her low, it truly did.”

  The indignities they’d had to bear seemed endless, Phoebe told us. One of the worst happened the week before, when The Morning Despatch printed a story about a farmer in Maine who’d written to the Mayor, saying he’d be happy to take in a young woman as a domestic, and if they got along, he’d marry her. He’d meant it as a way of providing relief, Phoebe said, but it got written up in The Despatch as a kind of joke. Unfortunately, her friend Liza Tizzard happened to match the man’s description of his ideal woman — “Plump and light-complected.” Now, whenever she walks in the park, someone will yell, “There goes a plump and light-complected woman. Get her on the first boat out to Maine.” She shook her head as she told us. “Liza can take a joke as well as anyone, but all this misfortune got us worn down and it brings her close to tears, it really do.”

  As Mama listened, she seemed to grow, as if she were actually filling with indignation. “We cannot have this!” she said when Phoebe finished, and she announced that the three of them must pack up their things so we could put a roof over their heads “this very night.” I’d never imagined she’d do anything so magnificent!

  Phoebe’s mouth fell open for a long moment, then she threw herself into Mama’s arms and began to sob. If Mama had told her she was condemned to hang by the neck until dead, she could not have cried harder. People passing by cast looks of sympathy our way, imagining Phoebe had just received some tragic news. When she finally composed herself, she apologized, begging us to stay and tell Liza and Miss Rosy the good news.

  But Mama had other plans. She stood, telling Phoebe we needed to go tell Papa so he could arrange for a cab to collect them. She tried to warn her that our warehouse is very humble, but Phoebe rose as well, grasping Mama’s
hand again. “Just to find ourselves in polite company again will make it a palace.”

  We took our leave, but every time I looked back, Phoebe was still watching and, each time, she waved again.

  As we left the park, I had a thought. “Now that Mr. Waldegrave is gone, Miss Rosy and Mr. Matt can be sweethearts again.”

  Mama stopped walking. “Oh dear. I quite forgot about that. Poor Matthew.”

  “But, Mama, they cared about one another once, why can’t Miss Rosy just unjilt him?” I asked.

  Mama sighed and said a man was unlikely to forgive such a slight. She was sorry to be throwing them together like this, but the deed was done. Then she took each of us by the hand and asked us how we thought Papa was going to greet our news.

  “He will be pleased, Mama,” Sarah said. “You acted so nobly. How could we have left three of his crowd in such misery?”

  Mama smiled and said she hoped Sarah was right.

  And, of course, she was.

  Thursday, August 11th, South Side Warehouse

  Though it’s mid-afternoon, I’ve had to pull a barrel chair over to the window to get enough light to write, it’s that dark today. But we are in no way downcast by the weather, for it feels as if a small flock of good fairies has descended upon our home. Miss Rosy, Phoebe and Liza spend a good part of the day singing as they bustle around, transforming everything. Phoebe, who has little sisters at home in Greenspond, takes great delight in dressing my hair, and she’s so clever that Nettie says I no longer look like a birch broom in the fits.

  It was lucky we rescued them because it began to pour yesterday, and the rain shows no sign of letting up. Their tent would have been miserable by now. They cannot stop exclaiming over their good fortune.

  When we told Papa, he looked astonished for an instant, then began to plan with enthusiasm, saying they must have their own “room” made of old crates to give them privacy.

  Papa has been buying bits of furniture from our neighbours on the South Side. Sarah and I now share a cast-iron bedstead with a proper mattress and we even have our own washstand. I told Papa that we had already decided we would give that washstand to the three young ladies.

  He smiled and promised to make arrangements with Mr. Morrissey to transport them, adding, “The timing is excellent, because I have some good news.” Then he told us a telegram had reached him this morning, and a cargo ship, the SS Fez, will arrive the week of the fifteenth with a shipment of goods for us. “So we can put those girls to work quite soon,” he concluded. Since the store’s records were lost in the fire, no one knows what’s in the shipment, but as Papa said, anything will be welcome.

  Sarah and I told Ned our exciting news as he rowed us across the harbour. When we reached the warehouse, Nettie had fresh raisin buns waiting. Of course, we had to tell the story all over again to her, so no one noticed that Ned had disappeared until we heard the ropes moving in their pulleys outside. While we were enjoying our raisin buns, he had taken old crates out by the wharf, dusted them off and prepared to haul them up to our attic. He cleverly packed smaller crates inside the largest ones and, in no time, we had enough crates to lay out a good-sized “room” for our dear shopgirls. (I know Miss Rosy is not a shopgirl, or Liza Tizzard for that matter, but I cannot write, “Papa’s head milliner, tailoress and glove-counter girl” every time I refer to them.)

  Sarah and I helped Ned to place the crates around a dormer window in the middle of the warehouse to give the “room” some light. He showed us how to stack smaller ones onto larger ones so there was no danger of the “walls” tipping. With our washstand inside and beds made from boards and straw pallets, it looked almost cozy. With Mama’s permission, Ned nailed the edge of a thin blanket between two planks and we placed this over the entrance for privacy. Nettie had managed to get some salt beef and she said she would cook up a proper boiled dinner to celebrate.

  Then Sarah and I went to sit by the Critches’ to watch for the carriage, which finally crossed the Long Bridge, raising a cloud of dust as it came toward us. Papa sat in front with Mr. Morrissey. Miss Rosy jumped out almost before the carriage came to a proper stop and rushed over to hug us. Like Phoebe and Liza, she looked much reduced in ill-fitting hand-me-downs, but we all beamed as we led our dear shopgirls upstairs. They greeted the humble space we had prepared for them as if it were a suite in the finest hotel, and when we told them how hard Ned had worked to make it ready, they praised him until he grew quite red. Then they unpacked their few things and declared themselves to be in heaven.

  Mr. Matt returns from work earlier now, as the need for new stovepipes is easing, and I noticed he was not nearly as pleased as everyone else to discover the new additions to our household. I wondered if sharing the same roof with Miss Rosy would make him sad, and it was hard not to stare at him. When our fine meal was finished, Mr. Matt immediately said he could use some fresh air and would Ned mind a row around the harbour? Ned did not mind. (He is very much in awe of Mr. Matt and seems astonished by his friendship.) So off they went.

  Phoebe and Liza refused to let Nettie touch the dishes that night and in the days that have followed. Nettie grumbles that she will be out of a job if the cargo ship does not arrive soon, but I believe she is secretly pleased to be treated so well. Liza sews gentlemen’s and boys’ clothing. This is skilled work and she lamented the loss of her sewing machine while doing the dishes that first night, saying she could easily take Phoebe’s blouse in if only she had a needle and some pins.

  “I have my needle case,” I told her, “but I’ve only got embroidery silks.”

  Sarah added that she had spools of thread, her needle case and her pincushion, “along with all my hat trimmings.”

  That delighted Miss Rosy, of course, who asked Papa what had become of the supplies she rescued the day of the fire. Papa told her that Mr. Morrissey had brought everything saved from the fire with him on the day we moved here and the boxes were stowed on the second floor. Miss Rosy instantly jumped up and took Sarah off with her to have a look.

  Then Phoebe told Liza she’d finish the dishes so Liza could sew. “If you can make this blouse more becoming,” she said, “I’ll give you my first-born child.”

  Liza laughed. “I’ll fix your blouse and welcome, but I’d just as soon pass on your first-born child.”

  After Liza had looked through our sewing supplies, Mama was forced to admit I wasn’t quite as impractical as she had declared me to be that afternoon in Mrs. Sampson’s garden. Phoebe changed into her one good blouse and soon Liza was busy attacking the oversized hand-me-down with needle and pins, and it looks much better now.

  Friday, August 12th, South Side Warehouse

  Our dear shopgirls brought a stack of the past few weeks’ newspapers with them from the park, but we were too busy to look at them until today, when Miss Rosy, Phoebe and Liza disappeared for the day. They still have their relief orders for mattresses, and they are determined to replace the straw pallets if they can. Having slept on those pallets, no one can blame them. Standing in line outside the Parade Rink is so tedious that they decided they would all go. As they left, Phoebe said it was a joy to know their possessions would be safe while they were gone.

  The rain has stopped, but it feels as if Miss Rosy, Phoebe and Liza took all our sunshine with them when they left today. I confess I had not fully understood how very much they have cheered us until they were gone. Sarah and I took to the newspapers to distract ourselves from the empty feeling that filled the warehouse, and soon Mama joined us.

  Perhaps it’s not strange to find we were all most interested in news of property stolen the night of the fire. Mama read that the police had made a raid on Quidi Vidi Village, recovering a large quantity of stolen goods soon after the fire. “That must ease Mr. Morrissey’s mind considerably,” she said.

  I noticed an item about men who had been convicted for stealing carpets and tea chests, then Sarah began to read a story from The Despatch about a man who had been sentenced to six month
s for stealing a piano out of a house on Carter’s Hill the night of the fire.

  “A piano!” Mama exclaimed. “Just imagine the effort it would take to steal a piano.”

  I said nothing, but my heart leapt up. If a piano was snatched from the fire, anything might have been saved, no matter how big.

  Sarah read on and it was an interesting story. The piano was recovered because of a plainclothes policeman who had been at work in town even before the fire happened. “Due to the efforts of this constable, a great quantity of valuable property has been recovered and now lies in Fort Townsend, awaiting owners,” Sarah read. I could tell from her face that her thoughts were the same as mine.

  Mama wondered how a policeman could manage to work in plain clothes without detection in St. John’s.She concluded that perhaps they had brought the constable in especially, as most Constabulary officers are known by name in this city. It seemed to me she could have shown more interest in the furniture.

  Then I found a notice in The Despatch which I read aloud. It was of such interest to us all, I’m going to copy it out. It reads as follows:

  DELIVER! All persons who have saved property from the late fire in Saint John’s, and now have such property in their possession without authority, are required immediately to deliver such property to the Police Barracks, Fort Townsend, and to give all necessary information concerning the same.

  All persons found hereafter in possession of such property, or who do not immediately obey this order, will be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the law.

  All questions of bona fide salvage claims in respect to such property will be investigated by the undersigned Magistrates and promptly disposed of.

  D.W. Prowse and J.G. Conroy, Stipendiary Magistrates for Newfoundland, Fishermen’s and Seamen’s Home, July 21, ’92