Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  Aware that I was grinning like a fool, I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I can’t think of any.”

  “You seem to find this amusing, Bridget.”

  “Not amusing, exactly. Just glad to be here, ma’am.”

  How could I admit how excited I was to know that, for the first time in all my fifteen years, I would be sleeping in a real bed?

  Chapter 8

  Back in Miss Brenner’s office, I completed the employment form, fudging just a little. For starters, my new name was Bridget Sullivan. I figured that maybe by dropping the O, I could lose the nicknames and the ridicule once and for all. A new name for a new life. Where it asked for name and contact information for my next of kin, I wasn’t sure what to write. As far as I knew, Pa was my only kin on the entire planet, and I was determined to break all links to my old life. That included Bleak Landing. So, in honor of Miss Johansen, whose first name was Elizabeth, I wrote “Elizabeth Sullivan” on the line. I added number 71 for a street address because that was the number of books that lined the shelves at the Bleak Landing school. I added “Kennedy Street” because it was the name of a street I remembered seeing near the legislative building as we drove by. For all I knew, I was giving the address of the lieutenant governor, but I was pretty sure no one would notice what I wrote or ever even refer to my form. My goal was to make enough money here to pay back Mr. Nilsen, redeem my necklace, and move on to something better.

  “I could have sworn Mr. Thompson said your name was O’Sullivan,” Miss Brenner said when I handed the paper back to her.

  “He did. But he heard it wrong,” I said. “It’s just Sullivan.”

  “I see. Well, you’re a fortunate young woman. Jobs are scarce these days, and positions here at Weinberger Textiles are highly coveted. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s a ten-hour day and you’ll start at six dollars a week, with the opportunity to work your way up to eleven dollars. Out of that, we take a dollar a week for your room and board. You’ll need to catch on quickly, work hard, put in long hours, and keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “I can do that.”

  She placed the form inside a folder on which she’d already written my name. “Glad to hear it. Let’s get you started, then.” She led me to the huge, noisy room with rows and rows of sewing machines. My heart pounded.

  “Mrs. Huddlestone?” Miss Brenner handed me off to an older woman in a gray dress with D. HUDDLESTONE, HEAD SEAMSTRESS on her name tag. “This is Bridget Sullivan, our newest girl. I’ll leave her with you.”

  Mrs. Huddlestone looked me up and down. “How old are you?”

  “Nearly sixteen, ma’am.” Well, I would be. A year from today.

  “Ever run a sewing machine?”

  “No, ma’am. But I can hand stitch.”

  Mrs. Huddlestone sighed and rolled her eyes. “That’ll come in handy when it’s time to sew on buttons. We’re working on industrial aprons at the moment. No buttons required, but a good garment to learn on.” As she spoke, she led me to what appeared to be the only vacant chair in the room.

  “The most important thing you need to know is how to care for your machine.”

  I spent the next half hour learning how to thread, clean, and oil a sewing machine, and the next six hours after that sewing the same four seams over and over again before passing each apron to the girl on my right for the next step. Whenever I thought I was starting to get caught up, another pile of fabric would be delivered to my station. By the time the bell rang at six o’clock, I figured I could sew those seams with my eyes closed. My back ached and my stomach rumbled. My bladder was near bursting, and my fingertips felt as dry as dust. But I’d survived my first day.

  “I’m Maxine,” the round-faced girl to my right said as we covered our machines. Her blond hair was pulled into a thick bun, but I could still tell it was curly. She nodded to the girl on my left. “That’s Rosa. She doesn’t speak much English.”

  Rosa’s nearly black hair and dark skin contrasted with Maxine’s light complexion. She nodded and said hello in what I guessed was an Italian accent.

  “I’m Bridget Sullivan.” The new name felt good.

  “You need a bathroom as desperately as I do?” Maxine asked.

  I nodded.

  The girls laughed and walked with me to the ladies’ room. Maxine kept up a running dialogue, and as we continued on to the second-floor cafeteria, I learned that she slept in dorm room number one, same as me. “Rosa’s in room two with the Italian and Ukrainian girls. They stick to their own groups, except for Rosa here. She prefers our company so she can learn English.”

  Rosa smiled at me again, and I wondered when she found any opportunity to speak English—or any language—around Maxine. She certainly heard plenty of it, though.

  Maxine led us through the double doors of the factory cafeteria. “You’ll hate the food.” She grabbed a metal tray and showed me how to get my fork and knife and line up for whatever was being served. “No options. Breakfast is always oatmeal. Lunch is always soup, even in the summer. And since this is Thursday, supper will be mashed potatoes and baked beans.”

  When had I ever had options? I gladly received the potatoes and beans plopped onto the divided sections of my tray. This meal was topped off with a thick slice of bread, an apple, and a glass of milk. We found seats together at a long table already occupied by four girls. I was about to dig in when I saw Maxine folding her hands and closing her eyes. I put my fork down and watched her.

  “Lord,” she said, “for this uninspiring food I am about to receive, you have made me hungry enough to be truly grateful. Amen!” She opened her eyes and smiled brightly at me. Rosa crossed herself and dug into her potatoes.

  I tried to grin back. I figured Maxine would decide soon enough that I was not friend material, so I might as well start into the food. Once I did, I had to admit there was not much taste to it. But it filled a need, and I had no difficulty feeling grateful as well. Even Maxine stopped talking long enough to eat most of her meal. Between bites, she introduced me to Betty, Helen, Frances, and Dorie.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said in as chipper a tone as I could muster, determined that Bridget Sullivan would be much more gregarious than Bridget O’Sullivan had been.

  “Pleased t’meet ya, too!” Helen said, and for one delightful second I thought someone here was more Irish than I. She giggled.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,” Betty chimed in. “Oh, but it be evenin’, then!” Now all four girls laughed.

  Dorie got into the act. “Catch any leprechauns lately?” More laughter.

  “I think your accent is swell, Bridget. How long’ve you been in Canada?” Frances may have meant to defend me, but her suggesting that I spoke with an accent only made me want to crawl into a hole. After I slugged her, of course.

  Gregarious, I thought. Just answer the question. “Eight years.” I forced out a smile.

  “Not long enough, apparently.” This was followed by another round of laughter. I wondered why all the girls seemed to hang on every word Helen said.

  “Well, I think it’s adorable,” Frances said. “Take me home with you some weekend so I can hear the whole leprechaun family. Where do you live?”

  The thought was horrifying. “Oh, I won’t be going home weekends. It’s . . .” How could I explain my home or my father or Bleak Landing? I didn’t even want to say the name. “. . . too far.”

  “Obviously out in the country somewhere.” Helen again. “She still has manure on her shoes.” More giggles.

  Dorie waved her hand in front of her face. “I wondered what that odor was.”

  “I thought it was Irish stew,” Betty said.

  I resisted the impulse to look down at my shoes, knowing it wasn’t true. But it was getting harder to resist the urge to stand up and punch each of them in the nose, as I’d done to Victor Harrison. I’d start with Helen. I could feel the blood rising to my face. My hands were clenched, and
I pondered whether a silent but painful punch would fall into Miss Brenner’s definition of keeping my opinions to myself. Probably not.

  “It’s funny, I didn’t hear any accent at all. Still don’t,” Maxine said with a shrug.

  I glared at her. I knew she was fibbing; though I willed her words to be true, I knew they weren’t. I waited for her to twist them into an insult. Surely she wouldn’t risk the ridicule of the others by coming to my defense.

  But she went on. “I think it’s marvelous. So exotic, sailing here from a far-off land. Your horizons are so much broader than ours.”

  “Her horizons are the only ‘broad’ thing about her.” Helen laughed. “I’ve seen more curves on a broomstick.”

  “I’m serious,” Maxine said. “And look at all this glorious red hair. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when we brush it out!”

  “Maxine imagines herself a hairdresser.” Betty turned to me. “Better watch out, you might wake up one morning with it chopped into a pageboy bob!”

  “Ooooh, that’s what I want.” Frances fluffed her brown tresses. “Can you do mine, Maxine?”

  “Just get me a good pair of scissors.” Maxine leaned in my direction. “I’m saving up for beauty school.”

  “I’ll be your guinea pig, Maxine,” Helen said. “Not until after you’ve done all these heads for practice, though.”

  “Nobody touches my hair,” I said. I took a deep breath and let out a slow sigh, my fists gradually uncurling. It seemed the attention was finally off me and my Irish-ness and my country-bumpkin-ness. I was about to bite into my apple when I noticed Helen slicing hers and eating it in dainty bites. I followed suit.

  When the meal ended, we headed for the dorm. It was now seven, and girls were already taking turns at the showers and washtubs.

  “Lights out at nine. I’ll help you make up your bed,” Maxine volunteered. She helped me place the white sheets and gray blanket on my cot. “It’s too hot in here for this blanket right now, but it’ll cool off tonight. It’s only April. Wait until July!” She tucked the pillow into its pillowcase and fluffed it with care. “There you go.” She looked at my hands. “You’ll want to get some cream for those fingers. The fabric sucks the moisture right outta them. I’ll share mine for now.”

  I unpacked the contents of my bag into the two drawers allotted to me and tucked the bag back under the bed. I wanted to crawl right in, but I took the time to rinse out my clothes and hang them to dry. Afterward, I took a quick shower and pulled my nightgown over my head. That’s when I remembered my mother’s locket was no longer around my neck. But I refused to dwell on it. With the dust from the long day washed away and Maxine’s hand cream soothing my weary fingers, I climbed between the sheets and lay back with a satisfied sigh. I’d done it! I’d left Bleak Landing behind. I had a full belly, a bed to sleep in, and a roof over my head. It even seemed that, in spite of myself, I might have made a friend.

  I was so exhausted, the chatter in the room didn’t even bother me, and I didn’t hear the call for lights out. It had been both the longest and the best day of my life. It was only as I was fading into delicious sleep that I remembered it was my birthday. I was fifteen years old.

  And I’d gotten away.

  Chapter 9

  Bleak Landing

  Darkness was approaching, which meant the dishwater might benefit the potato plants before it evaporated. Victor Harrison carried two five-gallon pails from his mother’s kitchen to the garden. His sisters Nancy and Anna dipped some onto each spot where they’d buried a piece of potato a few hours before. It was early in the season to plant, but the threat of another drought was greater than the threat of late frost. The sooner the potato chunks were placed in the ground, the sooner they’d produce something to eat.

  With careful use, the Harrisons had so far kept their well from running dry. The rule was, except for the water they drank, every drop pumped had to be used twice. Before it was used to water plants, it was used for dishes or bathing. Sometimes both, in that order, if it didn’t get too greasy. And there was little to make dishwater greasy these days. The family lived on oatmeal without milk, boiled potatoes without butter, and beans without bacon. His mother was still keeping six chickens alive, and they earned their keep by eating grasshoppers and laying eggs. Ma allowed one egg per family member per week and sold the rest, though Victor strongly suspected she was giving away more than she sold—calling it “on credit,” to save her customers’ pride. Or trading for other goods, like that tasteless Irish bread Bridget O’Sullivan frequently brought by. He’d far rather have the eggs and knew his pa would, too. But his mother’s heart was made of gold and had a soft spot in it for Bridget. He’d overheard his mother praying for the girl at night when his parents knelt together in their bedroom. For her protection, mostly. Victor felt sure from the bruises he’d seen on Bridget’s shins that his mother’s prayers went unanswered.

  Thoughts of that redhead were never far away, no matter how hard Victor tried to banish them. Now that he was done with school, he didn’t see her much. Each time he did, it seemed she’d grown taller. And less ugly. Not that he’d taken particular notice, he told himself. He noticed lots of girls.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bingo barking from the edge of their property.

  “Here comes Mr. O’Sullivan,” Nancy said.

  Victor thought he’d misheard his sister at first. Had she somehow read his mind? But both she and Anna stood looking toward the road, and when Victor’s eyes followed, he was surprised to see Bridget’s father walking toward them. What on earth? To his knowledge, the man had never set foot on their place. He always sent Bridget for eggs. Was he looking for work, hoping Pa might hire him?

  “Bingo! C’mere, boy.” Victor patted his thigh and the dog came, tail wagging.

  “Good evenin’,” Mr. O’Sullivan said in his Irish brogue. He looked around at the beginnings of the garden. “Got your praties in, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Just planted them today. You think it’s too soon?” Victor thought the man looked more worn and weary than usual, if that was possible.

  “Notta t’all, not this year.” Mr. O’Sullivan glanced at Victor’s sisters, then back at him. “Might I have a word with you, lad?”

  “With me?”

  Mr. O’Sullivan nodded, and Victor wondered what on earth he’d done to offend Bridget so much she’d sent her father after him. He hadn’t even seen her in a week or more, since the day he and Pa drove past the school on their way to the grain elevator and everybody was out for recess. Bridget was sitting on a swing, her nose in a book, and never looked up.

  After Victor’s sisters took the hint and went into the house, Mr. O’Sullivan pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I was wonderin’ if perhaps you could read this for me,” he said. “Me eyesight’s not so good.” He unfolded the sheet and handed it to Victor, who wondered why on earth Bridget couldn’t read it to him. But he said nothing, and took the paper.

  Daylight was beginning to fade, but he recognized Bridget’s handwriting immediately. She was the only student he’d ever seen who wrote as neatly as the teacher. He read aloud.

  Dear Pa,

  I know you won’t be able to read this, but if I tell you what I’m doing you might try to stop me, and I don’t trust anyone to keep quiet until I’m gone. I am fifteen today and I’ve decided it’s time to make my own way in the world. I’m sure you will be relieved to not have to keep me fed anymore.

  Please don’t look for me.

  Bridget

  Shocked, Victor looked up at Bridget’s father. “She’s gone?”

  The man stared at the horizon and nodded. “Bloody girl. Just when she’s old enough to start earnin’ her keep, she up and abandons her ol’ da.” He sighed. “She’ll be back.” With a loud sniff, he turned and headed in the direction from which he’d come.

  “Wait! Mr. O’Sullivan!” Victor trotted to keep up, holding out the paper, Bingo nearly tripping him. “Do
you want your note?”

  “No use to me.”

  “But, sir.” Victor had so many questions. “When did she leave? Did she have train fare? Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  “Don’t know.” He kept walking, and Victor stood watching him.

  “Mr. O’Sullivan!” he called out, but the man didn’t stop. “Why did you come to me?”

  No answer. Victor watched until the descending darkness swallowed up Bridget’s father. He looked down at the note in his hands, folded it, and shoved it into his pocket. Bingo looked up at Victor, and Victor crouched to lay one arm across the dog’s back.

  “Why did he bring this to me, boy?” Victor looked to the sky and thought of his mother’s prayers. Is this your answer, God? Are you protecting Bridget by removing her from her father’s house? Did he come to me because he thought I might know something? Or that I might be with her?

  Bingo licked his face. “Well, between you and me, boy . . . I wish I were.” At least then he’d know whether or not Bridget was safe.

  He turned and slowly walked back to the house, where he knew his family was preparing for bed. He wasn’t ready to tell his parents why Mr. O’Sullivan had come. He needed time to think it through. He sat on the front porch, scratching Bingo’s ears, until all was quiet and dark. The dog lay beside him, enjoying the attention. Finally, without a word, Victor went inside, took his turn with the wash water, and lay on his bed.

  But sleep refused to come.

  Chapter 10

  Winnipeg. June 1937

  I’d been at the job two months, and my sewing machine was beginning to feel like a natural extension of my hands. In truth, I was part of a much larger machine, humans and instruments working in tandem, each doing one small part to produce something of value. Together we turned out aprons, gloves, coveralls, and winter coats, though I could not have sewn a single garment from start to finish to save my life. When buttons needed to be sewn on, Mrs. Huddlestone pulled me and a few other girls away from our machines to the buttoning table where we stitched by hand. Afterward, I returned to my machine, where a huge pile of garments had accumulated, waiting for me to run through my seams. The work was monotonous, but it felt good to be part of a team. I was so glad to be away from Bleak Landing, I could have kissed Mr. Nilsen.