by Kit Pearson
Saturday, June 22, 1912
We arrive in Quebec, Canada, tomorrow. Thomas and I found a few minutes to talk late yesterday, in that same sheltered spot where we couldn’t be easily seen. He told me the boys will go to a Barnardo’s Home in Toronto, before being sent on to families as far away as Winnipeg or Vancouver. I saw a map pinned up on the ship. How can a country be so big? It looks as vast as an ocean. The girls go to Peterborough. Who knows when Thomas and I will meet again? Only one week together, after two years apart — and how will I know where he is?
Have we done right to come so far from home, Tom? I wondered.
“Father would say that we’re going to a better life, Harry,” he said.
We laughed then because he’d read my thoughts, the way he sometimes can — answering my question before I’ve even spoken!
Thomas promised to find me once we reached our destinations. And we agreed we had to do the best with the chance we’ve been given to make a better life.
We walked round the deck once more. The supervisors soften their hearts today and take no notice of us, letting us have some last moments together.
The lump in my throat won’t go away.
Tuesday, June 25, 1912
Canada
Yesterday, we landed in Canada! The wait to be passed by the doctor in the immigration shed was agony. The girl ahead of me in the line was held back. Her eyes are infected, so she’ll be sent back to England. “Trachoma,” the doctor murmured to the nurse.
I was trembling so much when it was my turn that he smiled. “I am not in the habit of eating little girls,” he said. The nurse beside him laughed and I was waved through! Hours later, we were marched to the railway station and onto the train to continue our journey.
When we reached Toronto, the boys got off. I saw Thomas turn around to wave goodbye … The thought of another separation is hard to bear. But we’d said we’d make the best of things. I’m willing myself not to cry as I write this.
Later
The wheels go round … They echo my thoughts — far from home, far from home. I watch the scenery go by. The skies are as blue and endless as the ocean. Animals graze peacefully. Houses are scattered far apart. I am the only one still awake. Alice and Jane sleep, holding hands, afraid of being separated.
Wednesday, June 26, 1912
Peterborough, Ontario
As soon as the guard announced “Peterborough,” we gathered our things and tumbled out onto the platform. People stared as though we were strange animals. A short drive brought us to Hazelbrae, the Barnardo Girls’ Home. It is a fine-looking white mansion, ringed by beautiful trees. We were shown to an annex added onto the back of the house. This is where we will eat and sleep. Matron welcomed us and said a short prayer before we ate our supper of soup, bread and cocoa.
Settled at last on my narrow cot, all of us crowded close together in the long dormitory, I am still dazed from travelling. My pillow is soft and white — time to close my diary.
Thursday, June 27, 1912
Hunter Street, Peterborough
This morning after a breakfast of oatmeal — as porridge is called in Canada — bread and tea we were assigned chores. Mine was to sweep the dormitories. Every few minutes, girls came up to fetch their bags, then hurried down to waiting strangers who had come to pick them up. I felt nervous, waiting for my turn. Would my new family like me?
At lunch I managed to sit next to Alice. I guessed how badly she must feel. Her sister had been collected earlier today. Jane had sobbed, “Tell Alice I love her,” when she came up to the dormitory to collect her things. I was nearly in tears myself. I knew how much they wanted to stay together. All I could do was put my arms round Jane and wish her luck in her new home.
Alice told me she had been dusting the main entrance hall when Jane was fetched. She ran out to wave goodbye, desperate to know where her little sister was going. We all know that’s the rule — no one ever gets told. Alice whispered in my ear that she did not think that was right!
Later
Before Alice could tell me more, I was called into the office and introduced to a Miss Hawthorn, who had come for me. As we travelled to my new home, I discovered that she is a dressmaker who lives with her widowed mother. Also, that her younger brother had been married last winter.
The buggy stopped in front of a fine yellow brick house with a gabled roof. The driver carried my trunk round the back of the house. Roses bloom in the front garden and two fine elm trees stand on either side of the house. Miss Hawthorn said her father had planted those trees when he was a boy. We went indoors, and she opened the door to her sewing room.
Miss Hawthorn speaks and moves fast, as though she is afraid of being interrupted! “It will be your responsibility to keep my workroom impeccable, and to pick up any stray pins. The sewing machine is always covered when not in use!” she told me. Next, I was taken into the parlour to meet Mrs. Hawthorn. She holds herself like a queen. Her hair is snowy white, her eyes a piercing blue. Her hand gripped a slim black cane and a fine ring glittered on her finger.
“There you are at last, Tabitha,” she said. “I was just about to ring for Mrs. Baines. So this is the Home Girl.”
She asked me to show her my hands. I did so and she told me to pour her some water from the covered pitcher on the table. I handed Mrs. Hawthorn her glass, careful not to spill a single drop. I bobbed a curtsy. “My name is Harriet James, ma’am,” I said.
She ignored me and turned to her daughter. “I have asked Mrs. Baines to serve tea on the back porch in half an hour.”
Miss Hawthorn took me up to an attic at the top of the house. My trunk was there and I was told to unpack and then go down to the kitchen to help Mrs. Baines, the cook/housekeeper.
A room of my own! A sloping roof, a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt, and a window from which I can see the back garden. There is a chest, hooks on the wall and a chair beside my bed. I unpacked quickly, and put on a clean apron.
Mrs. Baines, her hands covered in flour, looked up from her mixing bowl and said I could help myself to a glass of milk from a jug in the larder. “Do as you’re told, and you and I will get on fine,” she said. “They tell me you orphan girls are good workers. I don’t live in. Monday to Saturday, I arrive in the morning, cook breakfast and stay until supper is prepared. Miss Hawthorn comes down about seven each morning, and likes the tea made. Three spoons in the pot, girl, so she can bring a cup to her mother while I serve their breakfasts.”
Everyone in Canada talks so fast. I hope I can remember all my duties.
“I’m used to getting up at six, Mrs. Baines, and to making tea,” I said.
She answered that I was not like Ruby, then, who was hard to get up on winter mornings. That she’d left last week after two years’ service to join her sister in Toronto. It seems Mrs. Hawthorn was not pleased. When I asked Mrs. Baines if Ruby was an orphan too, she replied that I was the first girl who’d been hired from an orphanage. I was told to prepare vegetables for supper, and to set the table for the ladies.
After I had finished serving them, I ate my supper at the kitchen table. Mrs. Baines had left me a plate, generously heaped with food. I cleaned the kitchen and mopped the floor. Then I made sure that the sewing room was neat before I went to bed. I heard Mrs. Hawthorn’s stick tapping from room to room. She was checking that everything was in order.
I’m grateful for my food. I like work. But it’s not the family I was promised.
Have you found a good place, Tom, and a room of your own like mine? If only I knew where you are! You could be thousands of miles away. I can’t bear to think of it. How will you keep your promise to find me, then? I hope someone has spoken a word of welcome to you.
I’ll close the diary before my tears smudge these pages again.
Sunday, June 30, 1912
Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hawthorn — he is Mrs. Hawthorn’s son — and their little girl, Lizzie, came for tea after church. Mrs. Baines and I had baked strawberry tar
tlets and scones in readiness and she told me that Lizzie was actually Mr. Charles’s stepdaughter. Her mother had been widowed when Lizzie was a year old.
No sooner had I brought in the tea when the little girl knocked over her lemonade. Mrs. Hawthorn looked cross. The child’s lips trembled. I hurried out and returned with clean cloths and the table was soon put to rights.
Miss Tabitha told me to take Lizzie out into the garden. I said Lizzie might call me Harry, as my brothers did. We went outside and played hide-and-seek — I’ve always liked looking after little ones — until her mother came to say it was time to go home. Lizzie wanted to stay and play with me. Her mother smiled and thanked me nicely for looking after her. It made feel a little less lonely to receive a kind word. How I would have loved to go home with them! I heard Lizzie’s high voice asking her mother why I could not go and play in their house.
Monday, July 1, 1912
Dominion Day
Today is a holiday. By early afternoon my chores were done. Mrs. Hawthorn and Miss Tabitha had gone to Victoria Park to hear the band concert and to share a picnic lunch with Mr. Charles and his family.
I made my way to the park too. Families sat on the lawn below the white bandstand, the ladies shaded from the sun by bright parasols and wide-brimmed hats.
“Harry!” a little voice called and I saw Lizzie running towards me. “Why didn’t you come to the picnic? We had chicken and cake and oranges!”
I told her she was a lucky girl — that I had never been on a picnic.
Mrs. Charles caught up with her daughter. “Lizzie has taken such a liking to you, Harriet,” she said.
I felt myself blush at the compliment. To think she had remembered my name! She took Lizzie to look at the fountain, and wished me a pleasant day.
I curtsied, turned away, and almost immediately saw Alice coming towards me. I had not expected to see her again. She said that Matron has kept her on at Hazelbrae to wait on the staff. Alice hopes to find out where Jane is, in spite of the rules. She walked back to Hunter Street with me. I begged her to try to find out where Thomas has been sent.
Almost dawn
A summer storm woke me in the middle of the night. Wind rattled the window. I jumped out of bed, closed the window and watched lightning zigzag across the sky before I huddled down in my bed again.
Tuesday, July 2, 1912
Mrs. Hawthorn stayed in bed with a migraine — the thunder had kept her awake. Her bell rang constantly, and I carried trays up to her and then back down.
Miss Tabitha sent me to tidy her storeroom next to my attic. The room buzzed with heat and bluebottles. I sorted boxes of remnants, patterns and Eaton’s catalogues. The catalogues are so beautiful. They advertise the latest fashions, household goods and toys. A red fire engine in a Christmas catalogue made me long for Angus.
After I’d finished, Miss Tabitha sent me to exchange her mother’s library book. It felt good to be outside. The boardwalks had dried off after the rain.
This was the first time I’ve ever been inside a library. The man behind the counter, who introduced himself as Mr. Delafosse, the librarian, read Miss Tabitha’s note. He said that The Prisoner of Zenda is an exciting adventure story, then asked me if I was visiting and did I enjoy reading too. When I said I was an orphan from England, he said he had the perfect book for me. It is called Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery. The girl on the cover has red hair like me!
I was given a library card. I was told I must return it signed by an adult, but meanwhile the librarian let me borrow the book! And there is nothing to pay. Imagine, books for anyone to read! This has turned out to be a wonderful day.
Later
Tonight I found out that Anne is an orphan too. I wonder if it is worse to have brothers I might never see again, or never to have had any at all.
Saturday, July 6, 1912
I think I may have seen Thomas today!
It is market day and Mrs. Baines sent me to buy lemons. She warned me not to waste time — guests were expected and the lemonade had to be ready. After I bought the lemons, I swear I glimpsed Thomas on the far side of the Market Hall. But just then the lady beside me jostled my arm and I dropped the change. The coin had rolled behind the stall and by the time I found it, the red-haired boy was out of sight. I ran up and down looking for him, calling Thomas’s name, but the market was full of shoppers and I was afraid to be late getting back. Even though I rushed home, Mrs. Baines scolded me for taking so long, and found me chore after chore to do.
I comforted myself that it probably hadn’t been Thomas after all. What would he be doing in Peterborough?
Wednesday, July 10, 1912
Miss Tabitha is extra busy making dresses for two summer weddings. They have to be complete by August. So it is late before I can tidy the room.
Mrs. Hawthorn came into the sewing room as I was picking up stray pins, startling me. “I have rung for you twice. Too busy reading the catalogues, I see,” she said. I explained that I had just been putting them in order. She asked where her daughter was and I replied that she had gone for a stroll, because the evening was so pleasant.
“I did not ask you for a weather report, girl. Bring some tea to the parlour when you have finished,” she snapped.
I don’t know what I have done to displease her. She watches my every move, waiting for me to do something wrong.
Thursday, July 11, 1912
Mrs. Baines said that tomorrow the ladies will accompany Mr. Charles and his wife to the Grand Opera. They will dine out first. This means I’ll have the evening to read! I can’t wait to find out what happens after Anne dyes her hair!
Mrs. Baines thinks that “an important announcement” will soon be made. When I looked confused, she confided that Mrs. Charles is expecting. Will a new grandchild make Mrs. Hawthorn any kinder?
Friday, July 12, 1912
While the ladies were at breakfast, I finished cleaning the bedrooms and had got started on the downstairs windows when I was sent upstairs again to Mrs. Hawthorn.
“Come here,” she ordered.
What had I done this time? I’d pressed her white wrap to perfection, even Mrs. Baines said so. Had a speck of dust been discovered?
“I warned my daughter not to take in a girl from the streets!” she said, brandishing her stick. “My pearl necklace is missing. You are the only person who could have taken it.”
I am not like Anne Shirley and I won’t make up a false confession. “I am not a thief, ma’am,” I managed to say. But her pinched mouth told me she didn’t believe me at all.
“Tell me where it is, and if you have not come to your senses by tomorrow afternoon, I shall have to summon the Constable,” she said.
She terrified me. Her eyes bored into my face, she thumped her cane on the floor, and I feared she was going to strike me. Then she told me to leave her presence. The rest of the day was the worst I can remember. Everyone shunned me — even Mrs. Baines would not meet my eyes. What was my word against that wicked woman upstairs?
That night after everyone had left for the opera, I made a decision. How can I stay in a home where I am branded as a thief, without any proof? What good is food and a room, when I am not even called by my name? “Do this, girl.” That’s all I am to them — the girl from the streets. I hoped Matron would understand. I packed my trunk and planned to tell Miss Tabitha next day that I wished to return to Hazelbrae.
Lunch was over. I had dried and put away the dishes — almost dropping a platter, my hands shook so much, in anticipation of another interview with Mrs. Hawthorn. My apron was still damp when Mrs. Baines sent me upstairs to the old lady. But I deliberately refused to change my apron — Mrs. Hawthorn had called me a thief, turned everyone against me, and did not deserve my respect.
I knocked on the door, and stood before her. She asked me if I had anything to say. I shook my head. At that moment I knew I could not utter a sound.
“Well? So you have come to your senses then? Better the truth than a pr
ison sentence, is that it?”
My words flowed then; I had no trouble at all in voicing them. “I’m a poor girl, yes, ma’am, but in my whole life I have never taken anything that did not belong to me, not so much as a piece of bread! I swear that I did not take your necklace.”
Mrs. Hawthorn raised her stick at me and stood up so hastily that the cushion she’d been leaning against slipped down. She turned to move it and I saw the pearl necklace, gleaming on the chair. Mrs. Hawthorn was speechless for a full minute. Then she mumbled that the clasp must have come undone when she’d tried on the necklace. She dismissed me and told me to get on with my work. Instead, I ran up to my room and cried and cried, longing for Thomas to rescue me. You promised, I sobbed.
Saturday, July 13, 1912
Dear Diary, I never thought I would be writing words like this. Nothing is as it was yesterday — everything has changed.
Mrs. Hawthorn caught the afternoon train to Lindsay yesterday. She had planned to visit with friends for a while. I hope I never have to see her again. Her and her suspicious eyes and her false accusations. I was ready to speak to Miss Tabitha about deciding to leave, but before I had a chance to do that, she sent for me.
I can hardly believe this myself, but Miss Tabitha did not mention her mother or the necklace at all. Instead she said that Mrs. Charles had asked if Mrs. Hawthorn could spare me to work as a mother’s help for Lizzie and the new baby! She thought I had a way with children! She said that Lizzie had never taken to anyone outside the family before. It would do her good to have an older girl to look up to. Also, it would free Mrs. Charles to concentrate on the new baby.
