At the sidewalk leading to the brick house, Mrs. Ferguson stopped. “I paid your way into the pictures and now you have to pay me back.”
“I don’t have any money,” Margaret told her.
“Well, then, you’ll have to work it off.” Mrs. Ferguson looked around the yard. “Every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon you are to come to my house.”
“To do cleaning?” Margaret asked.
Mrs. Ferguson waved a hand at her impatiently. “I have Hilda to do that, who, no doubt, does it much better than you ever could. I mean you to keep me company. A companion—that’s what you’ll be. You can bring that sewing you’re always working on, if you like. Tell your mother I asked for your company.”
Mrs. Ferguson started up the walk, stopped, and turned. “You can tell them I took you to the pictures as payment for your companion services,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d have trouble with bending truth a bit, a girl who would sneak into a theatre.” She raised an eyebrow. She went a little farther and stopped again. “Can you read?”
“Yes,” Margaret replied.
“That other girl, too?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, you can bring her along with you.”
Margaret watched the black skirts climb the big house steps, then disappear indoors. Slowly she began to walk back to the cottage, relieved that Mama and Dad need never know about what she’d done. Except—she looked back at the brick house—now she was Mrs Ferguson’s companion!
Chapter 10
“Pack up your desks, class. It’s time for calisthenics,” Miss Simmonds ordered.
A groan went up from the pupils. Wednesday mornings, the entire school assembled outside—rain, snow, or sun—and Mr. Riley put them through a routine of exercise, though, as Jean pointed out to Margaret, he merely commanded them and didn’t take part himself.
They filed outside and faced the principal. “Line up! Arms out!” Mr. Riley barked. “That is the space you should be from the person next to you at all times!”
Margaret pushed her outstretched hand against Jean’s shoulder, then let it drop.
“Before we begin, I wish to bring up a matter of grave concern and that is . . .” Mr. Riley paused. “Spies. Enemy spies.”
The playground fell immediately silent, intrigued.
“You may think we in Canada are immune from the dangers of war, but you would be wrong.” His breath puffed white in the cold. “The very person standing next to you on the streetcar, at the market, in the store, might be a German spy.”
Margaret exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Jean.
Mr. Riley cleared his throat. “We must all do our bit for the war effort and even the smallest child can watch for spies. There are certain peculiarities that give away a spy. Odd behaviour, furtiveness, continual questions, and an awkward way with the English language. I would ask that you all be on your guard and should you see any of the above behaviours, report it to the nearest police officer.”
The playground erupted into an excited buzz.
“Stride jumps!” Mr. Riley shouted. “Breathe deeply and begin.”
Margaret and Jean hurried from the schoolyard at the end of the day.
“Don’t forget we have to go to Mrs. Ferguson’s,” Margaret reminded Jean.
“What did your mother say about the moving picture?” Jean asked.
Margaret grimaced. “I told her—and Pauline—that Mrs. Ferguson took us as her guests. I guess that wasn’t too much of a lie—Mrs. Ferguson did pay.”
“I have to go home first to feed the baby,” Jean told her. “Once she’s settled I’ll try to get away, but I can’t promise.”
“You have to come. I can’t go there alone,” Margaret wailed.
Jean stopped at the corner. “It depends how Ma is.” She turned to go down the street, when suddenly she stepped back, clutched Margaret’s arm, and pulled her behind a tree trunk. “Don’t look, but there’s a man there. Sitting on a stump. And he’s behaving oddly.”
“Where?” Margaret asked. She craned her neck to see, but Jean yanked her back.
“I said, don’t look!”
“How can I tell if he’s behaving oddly if I don’t look?”
Jean chewed her lip a moment. “Well, take a quick peek then. Don’t let him see you.”
Margaret peered around the tree trunk, then ducked back. “He’s writing something on a paper and he keeps looking down at the river and the bridge.”
Peter and George came around the corner. Margaret waved at them wildly, then put a finger to her mouth for quiet as she signalled for them to come behind the tree.
“What’s going on?” Peter asked.
“There’s a man behaving oddly,” Margaret whispered. “He’s acting peculiar, just like Mr. Riley said to watch for. Do you think he’s a spy?”
Both Peter and George stuck their heads around the tree trunk. “What do you think he’s doing?” Peter asked.
“I’ll walk by him and see,” George announced.
“What if he grabs you and takes you away?” Margaret protested.
“Well, you can run home and tell Dad to rescue me.”
They watched as George casually walked down the road, slowing his steps as he passed the man. At the end of the block, he turned and ran back. The man glanced up as George passed and smiled.
“He’s got a nice face,” Margaret said.
“Most spies do,” Peter told her. “That way no one suspects they’re spies.”
George ducked behind the tree. “He’s drawing a map of the river,” he announced. “He must be a spy.”
Peter’s eyes bulged out of his head. “I have to go help out at the store. I’ll tell my dad and he can phone the police.”
“I bet we’ll get a reward or medal for turning him in,” George told them excitedly.
“That’s all very fine, but we have to get home, and we have to pass right by him to get there.” Margaret peeked around the tree trunk, then pulled her head in quickly. The man had been staring at them!
“We’ll all go together,” Jean said. “He wouldn’t hurt all of us.”
Huddled in a group, they stiffly walked past the man. Margaret stole a look from the corner of her eye. The man smiled back at her, and she quickly averted her eyes, prodding George to hurry. Once past, they broke into a run and went off in separate directions.
“Don’t forget to call the police, Peter,” George called.
He and Margaret ran towards home, catching up to Evie as they arrived at the door to the cottage. “Evie,” George stopped for breath.
Margaret immediately took over relishing the news. “We saw a German spy!”
“I was going to tell her,” George protested.
“You were taking too long.”
“A spy? Are you sure? Where did you see him?” Evie asked.
“Sitting on a stump, drawing a map of the river,” George told her.
Evie took off her coat and set her books on the table. “And why would the Germans want a map of the Thames River? You two have the biggest imaginations . . .”
“It wasn’t our imagination,” Margaret interrupted. “We really saw him.”
“I’m sure you saw someone and then jumped to conclusions,” Evie said calmly.
“You’re just mad because you didn’t catch a spy,” Margaret rounded on her sister.
“Well, you should have gone and asked him if he was a spy, then you would have known for sure,” Evie said.
Margaret bridled at the amusement in her sister’s voice. “That’s just like you, Evie. Spoiling everything.”
“You know you have your coat buttoned up all wrong,” Evie told her.
“If you two could stop fighting,” Mrs. Brown said, “I could do with some help hanging this washing. George, you can carry out that basket. Evie, there’s the twins’ overalls in the tub to be scrubbed and that’s the last of it. Margaret . . .”
“I have to go to Mrs. Ferguson’s today. I’m expected,” Margare
t reminded her, feeling a moment of triumph. Evie would have to help Mama with the laundry all on her own. Mrs. Brown raised her eyebrows at her, then sighed. “Go on, then.”
Mama and Dad had thought it very queer, indeed, that Mrs. Ferguson had taken Margaret to the picture show and queerer still that the woman wanted Margaret to visit her. Mama had given her a look that said she knew there was more to it than Margaret was telling them.
“You don’t have to go,” Dad had said. “She might be our landlady but she doesn’t own us.”
“I don’t mind,” Margaret had replied, fibbing miserably.
At the back door of the red-brick house, Margaret clutched her bag of scraps and wished fervently that Jean were with her. She looked back at the cottage. Mama stooped, pulled a pair of pants from the basket, and pegged them to the line, then paused, placing a hand on her back. She did that a lot lately, Margaret realized. The coming baby obviously tiring her mother.
She knocked softly on the door. Maybe Mrs. Ferguson wouldn’t hear, then she could say she had tried to visit only to find no one was at home, but the door swung open. Hilda, Mrs. Ferguson’s maid, gestured for Margaret to come in, then disappeared down a hall. Margaret stood alone in an agony of indecision. Was Hilda coming back? Should she have followed the woman? Should she try to find Mrs. Ferguson herself or stay at the back door? Finally, Hilda returned and beckoned to Margaret to follow her. At a closed door she stopped, rapped, then whirled about, and vanished again.
Left alone, Margaret gulped hard. The hall was panelled in dark wood that swallowed any daylight that dared find its way in. The air smelled old and stale, like a tomb, she thought. Quiet as a tomb also. She could hear every thump her heart made. She gave a little shiver and pulled her bag more tightly to her chest and leaned an ear against the door. Maybe Mrs. Ferguson was dead in there! Maybe that’s why Hilda didn’t say anything. She wanted Margaret to find the body.
“Are you going to stand outside that door all afternoon or come in?” a voice shouted from inside.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Ferguson wasn’t dead. She turned the handle and went into the room.
Darkness dominated this room also—sombre furniture, drab papered walls, thick brown rugs. Mrs. Ferguson, dressed in black crepe, was a shadow seated in front of a small fire. Watery sunshine filtered through thin muslin curtains covering tall windows, pushing back some of the gloom.
“Where’s that other girl?”
“Jean will be here soon,” Margaret said nervously.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” The old woman waved her hand towards a chair opposite her. “Sit down.”
Margaret slowly unbuttoned her coat and walked over to the chair. Once seated, she studied the room further. A piano stood in the far corner, ivory keys covered and no music in sight. Behind it, shelves stuffed with books stretched from floor to ceiling. Margaret’s eyes roamed the room, coming to rest on a picture on the fireplace mantel of a young man in uniform.
“That’s my son Blair,” Mrs. Ferguson said, seeing her interest. Her voice softened. “My eldest. Bright, cheerful, handsome. Didn’t the girls flock around him. He was killed in April at Ypres.” Her voice became brisk.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. So that was why Mrs. Ferguson dressed in black; she was in mourning. “My brother Edward is going to the war soon.”
“I didn’t know you had an older brother. So he’s doing his bit for the war, is he? Well, I’m glad of that but I’m sorry for your mother. It’ll be a heartbreak for her when that final telegram comes.”
Margaret felt her stomach knot at the thought of Edward being hurt or—killed. What a horrid woman to say that! “The war might be over before he goes,” she said.
Mrs. Ferguson merely grunted, picked up a newspaper lying on the table next to her, opened it, and proceeded to squint at the printing. As if she weren’t even in the room, Margaret thought indignantly. Well, if Mrs. Ferguson could be rude, so could she. She crossed over to a table and calmly spread out her patches. Let the old woman read her newspaper; she would work on her quilt.
Suddenly the door opened and Hilda showed Jean in.
“Well, there you are. What kept you?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.
“I had to go home first,” Jean said. She gently eased her coat off her shoulders, then cradled her right arm with her left hand.
“Can you read?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.
“Yes,” Jean said.
“Well, pick out a book and read to us or you can read from the Bible if you prefer.” Mrs. Ferguson turned a page and buried herself behind the newspaper.
Jean raised her eyebrows at Margaret, then crossed to the bookshelves. “These all yours, Missus?”
“Most of them were my dead husband’s.”
Jean tilted her head to read the titles. “I don’t have much use for the Bible, though there are some interesting stories in it.”
“Stories,” Mrs. Ferguson exclaimed. She dropped the paper with a rustle. “Those aren’t stories. They are our Lord’s teachings.”
“I don’t care much for church and the Lord’s teaching. Might be fine for other people, but not for me.”
“Scandalous,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “What is the world coming to? Young women not going to church, wanting to vote along with men. I’ve just been reading about this Mrs. Nellie McClung coming to give a lecture at the Masonic Temple Hall. Should Women Think? That’s what she’s talking about. A suffragette, though I do see she supports the temperance movement. You probably want to be just like her.”
“No,” Jean said firmly. “I’m going to be a nurse like Edith Cavell. I’m going to go to the war and help the wounded men.”
“Nursing! I don’t hold with women going off to war. It’s for men. Women aping men in dress and thinking they can take on the affairs of men. Drinking, playing billiards, betting on horse races, voting. Becoming far too mannish. A woman’s place is in her own home, being subject to her husband, not strutting around at a war with men. If you want to do something useful for the war effort, join the Red Cross knitting and sewing group.”
“I don’t need a husband to keep me,” Jean said grandly. “Neither did Edith Cavell.”
Margaret studied her friend closely. It had never occurred to her that she might not marry. Didn’t every woman get married? Well, except for the old spinsters that no one wanted.
“I might even have a ride in an aeroplane if I go over to the war.”
“An aeroplane?” Mrs. Ferguson echoed. “Why would you want to leave God’s good earth in one of those dangerous contraptions?”
“Why would I want to stay?” Jean retorted. She turned back to the bookshelves. “Jane Eyre?”
“Fine,” Mrs. Ferguson said shortly.
Jean flopped in a chair near the fire, opened the book, and began to read. Margaret laid a blue triangle next to a brown one and began to stitch a seam. Jean read quite well, Margaret noted, not tripping over the words as many of their classmates did. Her speech took on the voice of the characters, bringing the story to life. Margaret felt herself relax, her needle going up and down through the material to the rhythm of Jean’s voice.
They all jumped when the door swung open and Hilda wheeled in a tea cart and left.
“Girl,” Mrs. Ferguson pointed at Jean, “you can pour.”
Jean awkwardly held the teapot with her left hand and aimed an amber stream towards a cup. It missed and puddled on the tray. Margaret quickly mopped the tea up with a napkin.
“Left-handed people are always clumsy,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
“I’m not left-handed,” Jean said.
“Then why are you pouring with your left hand?” Mrs. Ferguson demanded.
“I . . . I walked into a door and hurt my other arm,” Jean said.
Margaret looked at Jean curiously. That must have happened when she went home. She’d been fine at school earlier. Jean must be accident-prone, walking into things so much. She selected a sandwich and bit into it. Chick
en. Her mouth watered. It’d been a while since she’d tasted chicken, but the sandwich was so small it was gone in two polite bites, leaving her hungry for more.
Jean scooped a handful of sandwiches onto her plate and popped one whole into her mouth.
“Don’t wolf your food,” Mrs. Ferguson said sternly. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”
“No, Missus,” Jean said calmly. “We don’t have time for manners at my house.”
“If you are a slovenly girl, you will be a slovenly woman. What man is going to want a slovenly wife?”
“I already told you I’m not ever going to be a wife,” Jean said, leaning over and taking two more sandwiches. “Women are starting to work in the factories now that more of the men are gone. They drive ambulances overseas. They don’t need to be wives.”
“Young women should not be out taking a man’s job,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “They need to remember that God gave man first place in this world. A woman’s job is to help a man fill with honour the place that God has given him.”
“Lots of women work. Miss Simmonds is our teacher and she’s a woman,” Margaret told her. “And my mother works knitting baby sets for the store.”
“Some men are weak and therefore women are forced from their proper roles to take on men’s positions. Your mother should be knitting for the war effort, not money,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
Margaret felt a rush of anger. Did Mrs. Ferguson mean her dad was weak? And yet maybe Mrs. Ferguson was right—that did seem to be the way Dad felt, too. He hated Mama working so hard, hated her bringing in money when he couldn’t. She’d heard her mother telling him that in hard times everyone in a family pulled together to make ends meet, but he still minded.
Flying Geese Page 9
