“I didn’t know her very well. She was poorly a lot, I remember.” I recalled a haggard woman with a walker, almost crippled with arthritis, who showed up at Crones occasionally.
“Yes, I was always taking her to the doctor.” Maggie chuckled. “Which is why I avoid Western medicine now.”
I got up to look down on the property. “The garden must be a lot of work.”
“I haven’t got anything else to do. It’s worth it.”
“I thought you worked at the Co-op.”
“Part-time. Two days a week.” Maggie ladled a delicious-looking brown stew into bowls. “I’m in the vitamins and health products section.”
“So that’s how you know about drugs?”
“My degree is in botany. I studied how Indigenous people use plants as medicines. And I took a course in homeopathy.” Maggie put a bowl of stew in front of me, then reached for the loaf, which she cut into chunks. A green salad completed the meal.
I didn’t need an invitation to begin eating. I ate as if I hadn’t seen a decent meal for ages. Which I hadn’t. I bet Maggie had put on this substantial meal because she understood that I was desperate.
After I’d finished my second bowl of stew, Maggie asked, “How’s the job search?”
“I’ve applied for a couple of waitressing jobs and been turned down. I’ve been to most of the retail shops on Baker but no luck.” I had a thought. “Anything at the Co-op, do you think?”
“There’s a waiting list. I only got in there because I know about supplements. Have you tried Crawfords?”
“No. I hadn’t thought of that.” Crawfords was a small factory just outside of town.
Maggie looked thoughtful. “You could make your house work for you. Rent out some space, take in students…”
“I’d hate that. My house is my refuge. But maybe I’ll have to.” I took a sip of the herbal tea Maggie had made. “I thought of driving a truck, but I think you have to take a course.”
Maggie laughed. “I can’t see you driving a ten-ton truck!”
“I wouldn’t be able to reach the pedals. Or climb into the bloody thing. I also thought of holding signs at road works. But my best bet is some sort of care aide.”
“Have you put an ad in the Pennywise under Work Wanted?”
“No. I’ll do that. And I’ll go to Crawfords.”
I left Maggie’s with the remains of the loaf, a bag of vegetables, a dozen eggs, and an infusion of hope.
The next day I visited the highways department in City Hall. I wanted to find out how to apply for a job holding signs at road works. The people who do that often looked quite old, and they were on their feet all day, something I was used to. Would I be up to standing out in the wet and cold, inhaling car fumes and running the risk of being knocked down?
The helpful clerk told me the department doesn’t directly hire but contracts the job out to other companies. She gave me a phone number to call.
“Triple SA. Nancy speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi. My name’s Jess and I’m looking for information about working in traffic control.” I tried to make my voice matter-of-fact rather than pleading.
“What did you want to know, Jess?”
I hesitated. The voice seemed kind so I said, “I’m looking for work and I wondered if I’d be any good at holding up Stop and Slow signs.”
“You need a good personality—one that is public relations-oriented, because you’re usually dealing with frustrated drivers. And you have to be able to stand for a long time.”
“I think I can do that,” I said with feeling. “I’ve been a waitress.”
“Then you’re used to the public. That’s good. You need a car, of course. We supply a vest and a hard hat, but you need your own boots.”
I ran an ancient Honda Civic that managed to splutter along, but the only boots I possessed were at least thirty years old and looked it.
“You have to take a course before you can apply,” Nancy continued. “A traffic control course. It’s for two days at Selkirk College. Two hundred dollars.”
Oh bugger, I thought, where am I going to get that? “Right,” I said, “how much does the job pay?”
“Twelve dollars an hour. And workdays are six to eighteen hours long.”
“Have you ever done it?”
“I’ve done it for years.” Nancy sounded enthusiastic. “Love it. I like being outside. You never get bored. But the best thing is, there’s no boss. No one standing over you. I like that.”
“Are there jobs available?”
“Not right now. But they come up quite often. You have to have the course to apply.”
Nancy didn’t seem anxious to ring off so I said, “Do you mind if I ask you why you’re in the office now? Is it an age thing?”
“No, there’s no age limit, I’m sixty-four. I had to have surgery on my knee so they put me in here for a while. But I’d rather be outside.” She paused. “Good luck.”
This job sounded promising, but where was I to get two hundred dollars? Not only that, good work boots cost a bomb. Jason had offered to help, but I didn’t want to borrow from him. I had just received my last paycheck from Felix, which included holiday pay. The bill for the water tank came at the same time. That bill took care of most of my pay or I could have afforded the course.
I reviewed my expenditures. The house was the most costly. I had turned down the thermostat to 64 degrees, which wasn’t bad while the weather was getting warmer, and I turned down the new hot water tank to its lowest setting, making the water barely warm. But the economy that really upset me was canceling my foster child in India. I’d supported her for six years and watched her grow from a toddler into a smiling schoolgirl. I pulled out the latest picture of her, standing proud in her school uniform beside her sari-ed mother. “I’m sorry, Sonali, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
I searched the Help Wanted columns every day. If I’d been a fork-lift operator, a tennis instructor, a hairdresser, a jewelry maker, or a whiz at Excel, I’d have been in luck. As it was, there was nothing for a useless old lass like me. I did apply as a caregiver to a handicapped toddler, but they wanted a registered nurse. In the end I stopped looking at ads and took to wandering up and down Baker Street saying hello to people I know and staring into shop windows.
5
Amy phoned one day and asked me out for lunch. She had never done that before, but then I was working and couldn’t have gone anyway. Sometimes she and friends would show up at the Grizzly Grill for lunch. I tried to hand them over to another server but it didn’t always work, and I was forced to wait on them. Why did she come to the Grizzly, anyway? The food was not the sort she liked. Was it to make me feel inferior. I half expected her to snap her fingers at me and shout, “Waitress!”
I had no excuse to refuse her offer of lunch, and besides, I needed a good meal.
“Where would you like to go?” she said.
“Not Bob’s Café,” I said.
“No way. The food there’s terrible. How about Max and Irma’s?”
I rarely ate out so I was pleased and psyched myself up to be pleasant. I wanted a harmonious family relationship above all else, and hers was the only family I was going to get. Lisa seemed to have settled in New Zealand and anyway, her love interests were always women, so grandchildren were unlikely.
The real problem, I had to admit, was that I didn’t like Amy—never had. What Jason sees in her is beyond me. He’d always been a laid-back, happy-go-lucky sort of lad, generous with money and generous in spirit. Whereas Amy was the opposite. I’d dropped some coins in a homeless man’s hat as we walked along Baker Street one day and she’d said, “I don’t know why you do that, Jess. It only encourages them.”
“Everyone falls on hard times once in a while, and jobs aren’t that easy to find.” For a social worker, Amy showed little compa
ssion or understanding.
She took on a righteous expression and said, “It’s just a matter of perseverance. Besides, everyone should save for a rainy day.” I wanted to sock her one right in that prissy face.
“You never know what a person’s story is,” I said. “There are lots of reasons for hardship.”
“Tell me about it! I hear sob stories all the time. Most people should just smarten up.”
Amy used the word should so often that I assumed she came from a religious background. But that was not the case. She was tight-lipped about her past, but from the occasional random remark I gathered she had grown up near Salmon Arm in a family where no one seemed to have a regular job and going to school was an unavoidable trial to be endured for as short a time as possible. Evidently she had had no contact with her family since she’d left home. I had never met her parents, who hadn’t been at their wedding, and Jason and the children never referred to their grandparents.
Amy had broken away and put herself through college. I admired her for that, but there was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Was it fear? Fear of doing the wrong thing, of disobeying society’s rules, of not appearing “normal”? Fear of poverty? By marrying Jason she was assured of a steady income and a middle-class lifestyle. Perhaps she was afraid of losing that.
“How’s the job hunting?” she asked after we’d sat down and ordered.
“No luck so far. They think I’m too old.”
Amy said nothing and I had the impression she agreed with them. I stared at the chalkboards showing the specials before finally breaking the silence with, “How’s Nicholas enjoying gymnastics?”
“He loves it! He needs to move his body. Like most boys.”
“Now that I’m not working I’d like to spend more time with him. Perhaps he could come over to play at my house? Or I could take him to the park?” I offered.
Amy took a sip of water. “He’s already pretty busy. I believe that children should be kept occupied.”
“You don’t think spending time with his grandmother is important, then?” I stared at her.
“Yes, of course. Which is why we like to have you for dinner every week.”
I wanted to be a Granny to my grandchildren, not just someone who came to Sunday dinners. I wanted to take them to the beach, have fun, buy them treats they weren’t allowed at home—that sort of thing. But Amy had other ideas. She always had to be in charge, always the supervisor ready to correct.
On one rare occasion when I had taken the children on the tram and bought them an ice cream in the park, Amy had greeted them with, “Look at you both! You’ve got ice cream all down your shirts.” Then she turned to me and said, “They’re not allowed ice cream. It’s full of sugar.”
The food arrived and I tucked in while Amy carefully cut a piece of her lasagne before switching the fork to her right hand—the American way. What a stupid way of eating—as if you’ve never grown past having your food cut up for you as a kid.
I began to feel the strain of having to make conversation. Was it going to be one of those times when I asked questions and Amy answered them? I decided to say nothing and leave it to her. I wasn’t going to let her spoil my food.
Finally Amy said, “Jason wanted me to take you out now you’re unemployed.”
“Thank you,” was all I said.
“What sort of job would you like?” Amy had her listening face on. “Being on your feet all day is hard.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Have you tried for other waitress jobs?” Amy was using her official social worker voice, as if she was interviewing a client.
“Of course.” I wasn’t going to be chatty if it killed me.
She continued to eat, oh so delicately, while I finished my meat pie and chips, scraped the plate noisily and clanked my knife and fork together.
We sat in silence. I looked around the room. The place used to be a funeral home and the pizza oven was where they cremated bodies. Or so rumor had it. A thirty-year old woman at the next table gazed admiringly into her date’s eyes as if his every word was a gem. Lassie, are you that desperate? I looked everywhere but at Amy.
She paid attention to the menu on the wall as if she hadn’t seen it before and then asked me if I liked artichokes.
“Not Jerusalem ones,” I said. “They give me wind.”
That ended that conversation.
We got up to go and Amy paid the bill, I noticed that she gave about five percent as a tip. Typical. I surreptitiously took a five-dollar bill out of my purse and put it on the table before I followed Amy out.
She suggested a browse on Baker Street. We sauntered along for a while and then she stopped. “Oh look at those Jimmy Choo’s. The red ones.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars for a pair of shoes!” I could hardly believe it. They were completely impractical with idiotic high heels and silly little straps.
“That’s not bad. You should see the prices in Vancouver.” Amy moved on down the street.
“Think how many people could be fed for two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar donation to the food bank.”
She stopped to look at me. “Food bank! Food banks encourage laziness. Besides, the government should take care of that sort of service.”
I stopped walking and glared at her. “Well they don’t, so what are people supposed to do? Lie down and die?”
Amy’s face had that wooden expression of self-righteous smugness. “There’s always work if you look hard enough.”
I so badly wanted to give her a kick up the ass that I had to leave. “Thank you for lunch. I have to go now,” I managed to say, and marched away.
6
My silver spoon with Whitby written on the handle scraped the tea caddy as I scooped the last of my tea leaves into the pot. Beyond the Fringe had a skit where, in the wake of fresh wartime disasters Will said to his wife, “Never mind, dear. Put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of tea.” As things got worse the final line was, “Never mind, dear. Put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of hot water.” Was I reduced to a nice cup of hot water?
I scrounged around the house looking for things I could sell. Storage boxes in the basement yielded an electric typewriter I had once used for a typing course, a baseball glove belonging to Jason, a couple of cast iron frying pans, a July 1969 newspaper showing pictures of the lunar landing, piles of Lisa’s “art” work from pre-school, a painted wooden clog my mother brought back from Holland, and a carefully wrapped Royal Doulton tea set that was far too fragile for everyday use, but might fetch a buck or two. I took it upstairs ready to take it to—where? I’d never been in a pawn shop, and besides, I didn’t want it back. An ad in Pennywise, that was it.
Upstairs my furniture looked anything but saleable. Who would want the bedroom set Frank and I bought for two hundred dollars when we first arrived in Vancouver? Or the stool Jason made in high school? All my furniture was utilitarian. Where had I bought it? When? And what would I use if I did sell it?
The only thing of value I owned was my cameo brooch. I cradled it in my hand as I stroked the head of Ceres. My grandmother, a down-to-earth Lancashire woman who worked in a mill all her life, and managed to raise six children as well, gave it to me. The brooch had been left to her by an equally penniless aunt, and she would never have thought of selling it even in the direst financial straits. Her only granddaughter would not sell it either.
I was now down to the last of things: the last loaf of bread, the last pat of butter, the last spud, the last dollar. The shelf that used to hold cans and boxes now simply showed dust outlines of where these items had lain. I had been broke many times since I left Frank, but there had always been a paycheck on the horizon. In one of those temporary periods, I had lived on bread and eggs for two weeks and learned how a few herbs can liven up an omelette.
The idea that I s
hould visit the food bank hovered beside me like a Halloween ghoul, a nasty piece of work that jeered at me in my mother’s voice: Useless old woman, you’re a waste of space; now you have to beg for food; taker, taker, taker; always proud of yourself that you gave to charities. Now look at you—a scrounger.
Outside the church basement that housed the Nelson Food Cupboard sat a giant bell, cast in 1895 and rung in the church through its various denomination changes. I hovered beside it as if interested in examining the plaque until the street was empty of people. Then I quickly slipped between the double doors into a dark hall. So you’re going to do it are you, my mother’s voice said contemptuously. Think the world owes you a living, do you?
An open door on my right led into a large meeting room. I took a big breath and stepped in.
A bulky, bearded man in a navy peaked cap, who could have been a sea captain, greeted me. “Hello,” he said in a friendly tone, “what’s your name?” He sat behind a table with some sort of a register in front of him.
“Jess,” I said in a low voice.
“Speak up, m’dear. Did you say, Bess?”
“No. Jess. Jess Kemp. I haven’t been here before and I’m sorry I need you and I will pay you back as soon as I have a job and some money and I have contributed a lot in the past and I never thought I’d need to do this but…”
I paused for breath and he took the opportunity to break in. “Jess, you don’t need to explain. We don’t ask questions. We only need a name and gender and how many you are feeding for our records. We assume you need food and we’re here to provide it. Now this is what you do.” He stood up and came round the table. “Sit there until Jean calls you in.” He indicated a row of chairs behind me. “Then she’ll take you to the storage room where you take what you need. You’ve brought bags. Good.” He smiled down at me. “No need to worry. You’ve helped others before—now it’s your turn. Everyone goes through tough times.” He patted my arm and returned to his table.
I turned round to the chairs and Claire, one of the Crones, sat there smiling at me. What on earth was she doing here? “Hi Jess.” She tapped on the chair beside her. “You’re fourth in line. It’s not busy today. How are you? How’s the job hunting?”
Gone to Pot Page 4
