The Young City: The Unwritten Books

by James Bow

  The back door banged open. Faith came in, grunting, hauling a bucket over the threshold. She looked up. “Rosemary! You are up early!”

  Rosemary closed her eyes wearily. She nodded to Peter, who was hidden by the wall, and turned back to the kitchen. “We’re both up. Peter’s still getting dressed.”

  “Help me lift this onto the stove.” Faith grasped the rim of the bucket. Rosemary came over and pulled at the metal handle. Together, they hefted it up. Rosemary wrinkled her nose at the brackish, earthy-smelling water. “Ew!” she said before she could stop herself.

  “I know,” said Faith, opening a hatch in the potbellied stove. “The condition of the wells is a disgrace.” She poked at the embers with fresh kindling. The fire flared to life. “That is why I always boil the water, no matter what the Public Health Department says.”

  “Good idea,” Rosemary muttered. The water smelled like her damp bloomers.

  “Put some in a pot when it boils. There’s a packet of oatmeal in the pantry.” Faith nodded at a small room in the corner. “I have to fetch my books.” She stepped upstairs. Rosemary fought down a surge of jealousy and set about exploring the pantry.

  She was stirring a bubbling pot of oatmeal when Faith returned, followed by Peter, who was wearing fresh clothes.

  “I am sorry I was such a poor host yesterday,” said Faith. “I hardly saw you between your late morning and my late studies. But I must say that this place was kept clean, and I thank you for it.”

  Rosemary rolled her eyes and said nothing. She hated cleaning, but it was just the excuse she needed to search for and find those candles. Not that anything had come of her sacrifice.

  “I see my education is in good hands.” Faith gave her a winsome smile. Rosemary bit her tongue.

  Edmund entered from the front. “Ah! Breakfast! Good, I’m famished.” He pushed forward, grabbed a bowl, and stood waiting. Rosemary realized she had the ladle in her hand. Edmund made no move to take it. She dipped the ladle in the pot and poured the oatmeal into the bowl. He walked away, licking his spoon.

  Faith set a bundle of books, tied by a leather strap, on the table. She picked up a bowl and stood waiting. Rosemary served her, too. Then Peter shrugged, picked up the bowl, and joined the line. He frowned at Rosemary’s glare. “Um ... please?”

  Rosemary slapped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl. Peter walked away, wiping a fleck from his eye. Rosemary served herself and joined the others at the table.

  Unlike dinner, breakfast was eaten in silence. Peter kept shooting worried glances at Rosemary, which soured her mood even more. Then Faith pushed aside her bowl and stood up. “I have to go to classes. I sign up for my new ones today.”

  “Off you go, then,” said Edmund. “When you are through here, Rosemary,” he handed her his dirty bowl, “come up front. I’ll show you how to handle the shop.”

  “Thank you again for the cleaning, Rosemary,” said Faith as she swept out the back door.

  The room emptied out, leaving only Peter and Rosemary. Rosemary held Edmund’s dirty bowl in her hand.

  She looked down at it, then swung it at the kitchen table with a shout.

  Peter snatched the bowl from her hand. “Woah, woah! Easy!”

  “I didn’t go off to college so I could keep house,” she snapped.

  “You’re not just keeping house,” said Peter. “You’re helping Edmund out with his store, too.”

  She grabbed the bowl back and raised it high, taking aim at his head.

  “I’m really, really sorry I said that,” he said. “But it’s just a couple of days. Until we can get the stuff we need to go back. Okay?”

  She lowered the bowl. After a moment, she set it on the kitchen table. “Lanterns, you mean.”

  “Yeah. And rope, since we did fall in. And maybe climbing gear, if we can afford it.”

  “We can’t afford it.”

  “Well, maybe ...”

  She looked up at him. “You thought of something. Give.”

  “I was just thinking,” said Peter. “We’ve got food and shelter, thanks to you. I spent all of yesterday staring

  at the construction site from the top of a hill. Maybe I can be more constructive, so to speak. They hire for odd jobs at the beginning of the day.”

  Rosemary’s eyes widened. “You don’t even know how to use a hammer!”

  “How hard can it be?”

  Her hand went to her cheek. “Oh my God, you’re going to die.”

  “It’s a good plan!” he huffed. “It gets us money, and I can scout the site properly. Perhaps even find things, like a lantern, to help us go back.”

  She sighed. “Just be careful, all right?”

  “Okay, Miss Worrywart.”

  She reached for the bowl again.

  “Backing up slowly,” he said. Then he turned to the back door. He hesitated there a moment, then turned back. “This may sound weird, but ... doesn’t this seem like an appropriate time to kiss?”

  Rosemary snorted and shook her head, smiling at last. She came to him and kissed him on the lips. “Have a good day at work, dear.” She punched his shoulder softly. “Bring home that bacon!” She gripped the back of his neck. “Don’t get hurt.”

  “Let me show you how this place operates.” Edmund led Rosemary into the front section of the store. He pulled a black, leather-bound book from the desk. “This is the inventory. When we buy goods, we write down when we bought them and how much we paid. When we sell goods, we write down when they were sold and for how much. Understand?”

  Rosemary nodded vigorously.

  “Now this ....” Edmund set the black book aside and picked up a sheet of rough paper. “This is where you will write down the day’s sales. At the end of the day, I take this and add the numbers to the business ledger. Don’t worry about the book; it will be my duty to fill it out.” He frowned at her. “You do know how to work with figures, don’t you?”

  Rosemary barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. She smiled and nodded.

  “Good!” said Edmund. He handed her a pen and a receipt. “Try it.”

  Rosemary bent over the page. She put the pen to paper and dragged it. Nothing came out. She stared at it. “You’re out of ink.”

  “There’s the ink bottle.” Edmund pointed to a corner of the desk.

  “Ink bottle.” She took a deep breath. “Here goes....”

  She dipped the pen and brought it to the page. A line of black drips followed her. She tried to wipe the splotches away, smearing the desk and the sleeve of her dress.

  Edmund sucked his breath.

  Rosemary got a manageable amount of ink and bent back over the page. She pressed the nib on the line and squawked as a pool of black swept over the numbers.

  “Here!” Edmund snatched back the pen. “Perhaps I should enter the day’s purchases.”

  “All right.” Rosemary bit her lip. “But if you do, you should know that you made a few mistakes.”

  Edmund froze. “Mistakes?”

  She pointed at four different spots on the page. “You forgot to carry the four, and twelve nines is one hundred and eight, not ninety-six, and here and here you forgot the decimal point.”

  Edmund stared at her.

  She smiled at him sweetly. “They’re perfectly easy mistakes to make.”

  Edmund turned back to the page and recounted, mumbling the numbers and tapping his fingers. He did the numbers again. Then he stood up. He handed over the pen.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Do you have a pencil?”

  Step one, Peter decided, was getting past the foreman, who was standing watch at the gate.

  Peter stepped up and cleared his throat. The foreman’s amber eyes fixed on him and narrowed, but he didn’t order him out. “What do you want?”

  Peter swallowed hard. “Excuse me, sir, but would you have any jobs available?”

  “What makes you think we would?” said the foreman. “Have we signs asking for hired hands? Did you see us asking for workers
from the street gangs?”

  Peter suspected that the answer was “no.” “I could be useful,” he ploughed on. “I can keep your books. I know my way around an office. I can read blueprints!” That was a lie, but he figured he could learn quickly.

  The foreman turned away. “I’m sure you have plenty to offer, but so do dozens of people not employed here. Look elsewhere.”

  “But —”

  “I’m sorry, son.” The foreman didn’t meet his eyes. “These are hard times, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  He was about to say something more, when two things happened. A horse-drawn cart laden with timbers drew up to the gate, and the old man caught sight of two slouching boys trying to sneak past. He collared them. “You’re late!”

  “There was an accident getting here,” said one.

  “My pa needed me at home,” said the other. “He’s sick. Very sick.”

  “My ma’s sick, too,” the first boy cut in. “On her deathbed, she is!”

  “Don’t try that on me,” the foreman growled. “I’ve seen how you work. You’re never around when there are bricks to be unloaded and your shovels prop up your chins. You were late three times last week!”

  Peter looked from this argument to the cart of timbers. He lined up behind the workers grabbing beams and hauled a heavy piece of wood over his shoulder. Turning carefully, he walked past the foreman without staggering.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he passed.

  “Sorry,” the foreman began, then stopped short. He stared as Peter shouldered the beam to the growing pile of timbers inside the construction site, dropped his load into place, and helped the worker behind him to unload his beam as well.

  “You see that?” The foreman turned on the two sullen boys. “That’s the sort of work we like to see here, not your lallygagging! He’s worth what the pair of you cost. He works here now. You don’t!”

  “You can’t fire us!” the first boy shouted.

  “Yeah! My ma’s at death’s door!” the second added, before catching himself. “I mean, my pa —”

  “Enough!” the foreman yelled. “Go away and do whatever it is you do, except don’t expect to be paid for it!”

  The two boys started to protest, but thought better of it. Shooting evil glances at Peter, they stomped away.

  Peter unloaded his second timber and went back to the foreman. “Thanks. What else do you need?”

  The foreman smiled at him. “Can you lay bricks?”

  “I can learn.”

  “Good! My name’s Tom Proctor. I’ll pair you up with Smith. Mr. ...”

  “McAllister,” said Peter after a moment’s hesitation. “Peter McAllister.”

  “Well then, Peter McAllister, let’s get your name on our rolls and see what else you can do.”

  He stepped back into the construction site. Peter turned to follow, but stopped when he saw the two boys in the distance. They were talking to a third, taller, sneering boy, his nose in a bandage. Peter recognized him: Rob Cameron.

  Peter ducked inside before Rob looked up.

  Rosemary added water to the stew and chopped in a peeled carrot. With a sigh, she’d settled into stirring when the back door banged open. Faith entered, hauling Peter over the threshold. The young man grimaced in pain.

  “Peter!” She rushed over and helped Faith lower him into a chair.

  “I found him staggering home,” said Faith, flexing his arm and peering at his red and raw knuckles. “I think he has strained himself.”

  “I told you you’d hurt yourself!” Rosemary slapped Peter across the back of the head.

  “Ow!” He glared at her. “I’m all right. It wasn’t so bad. I know how to lay bricks now.”

  “Raise your arm above your head. I dare you.”

  He scowled. “Don’t want to.”

  “You have overworked yourself,” said Faith, setting his arm on the table. “A hearty supper and a good night’s sleep and you will be better by morning.”

  “See?” said Peter. He pushed himself up. “I can do this. Even if they only pay me ninety cents a day, I can do this.” He fished into his pocket and drew out five coins.

  “That is no slave wage,” said Faith. She stowed her books, tied by a leather strap, on a shelf.

  “You forgot inflation,” Rosemary whispered into his ear. “I was at the butcher’s this afternoon. That could buy a good cut of meat.” She picked up the coins and slipped them into a pocket in her skirts.

  The door opened and Edmund entered, tapping his fingers together and muttering numbers beneath his breath. He brightened when he saw Faith and Peter. “Ah! You’re back. Now we can eat! How was your first day at work?” He clapped Peter on the shoulder. Peter gripped the table and whimpered. Rosemary lowered him back into his chair and massaged his shoulders.

  Edmund peered into the bowl of stew, stirring it with the ladle. “Is supper ready?”

  Faith slapped his hand away. “Rosemary is in charge of this meal. She will tell us when it’s ready. Is it ready, Rosemary?”

  Rosemary waved at the bowls. “The carrots will be hard, but if you don’t want to wait, help yourself.”

  They didn’t wait long. After they’d eaten dinner, Faith stayed to help clean up. Peter reached for the dishes to help, and stopped when he saw Edmund and Faith staring at him. He gave Rosemary an apologetic grin, handed her the dish, and darted upstairs.

  As Faith set some dried plates on the shelf beside her pile of schoolbooks, she brushed a piece of paper. Seeing it, she frowned. Then she picked it up and held it behind her back. “Edmund?” He was reaching for the door to the front. He turned around. She gazed at the floor and bit her lip. Rosemary looked up from washing the dishes.

  Edmund stared at Faith. His eyes narrowed. “Faith?”

  “I applied for my additional courses today.”

  He sighed. “Show me the bill.”

  Faith hesitated, then held out the paper. Edmund took it, took a deep breath, and peered at it. His face went red. “Ten dollars? Is this professor teaching you personally?”

  Faith’s eyes turned to the floor.

  “Does the university think I’m made of money?” Edmund threw the paper on the table. “How can it cost so much to teach something people already know? How do they expect us to afford this?”

  Peter appeared at the stairwell door.

  “My sewing —,” Faith began.

  “Have you started on your sewing yet?” Edmund shouted. “Have you got your money yet? Maybe you should see your clients and ask for an advance?”

  Rosemary flicked suds from her hand. “I’ll help.”

  But Edmund was in full rant. “I pay fifty dollars a year for your education. I already put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. How can they expect me to do more?”

  Faith bit her lip again.

  “I said I’ll help!” Rosemary shouted.

  A stunned silence fell. Everybody stared at her.

  Rosemary stepped forward, fished in her pocket, and brought out two quarters. “We never talked about rent. We’ve been here two nights. How does a quarter a day sound?” She frowned at Peter’s look. He turned away and slipped quietly upstairs.

  “Rosemary,” Faith began. “You already help around the house. We cannot ask for more.”

  “Faith is right,” said Edmund. “We can afford this. We’ll afford it, somehow. We cannot take —”

  “Take it,” Rosemary snapped. “Or, if you don’t, then don’t argue about money in front of me.”

  Edmund and Faith lowered their gazes to the floor. Edmund reached out, hesitated, then plucked the quarters from Rosemary’s palm.

  Grunting, Peter hauled a folded screen up the narrow stairs. He juggled it at the door of the apartment so he could twist the knob and kick his way in.

  Rosemary, who had been slumped on the bed, leapt up as he entered. “Peter! What did Faith tell you about overstraining yourself?” She grabbed the screen and helped him set it down.


  “I know.” He smiled at her. “But you seemed really down and I thought this would cheer you up. Found it in the basement, actually.” He unfolded the screen on stiff hinges and stepped back. “Ta-dah!”

  Rosemary pushed her glasses further up on her nose. Before her stood a three-panel screen, with thick canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Asian designs were painted on the canvas. It stood around five feet tall. She looked at Peter.

  “A change screen. Thought we could use it,” said Peter. “Especially since Faith finally found some nightclothes for us.” He pulled a bundle from under his arm and tossed it to her.

  She caught it and unfurled a one-piece nightgown of white cotton. She grinned. “We don’t have to sleep in our underclothes anymore!”

  Peter patted the screen. “And with this baby, I don’t have to stand facing a corner while you change clothes.”

  With a whoop, Rosemary darted behind the screen and, before Peter could look away, began undoing buttons and slipping off her overdress. The screen blocked her from the shoulders down, but Peter took two steps back. The top of the screen became draped with dress and undergarments. Then Rosemary slipped on the nightdress and stepped out into view. “Ta-dah!”

  She was clad in a one-piece slip of sturdy, white cloth, laced at the neck and with short sleeves. The slip ran down to just below her knees, exposing her shins and ankles. She wriggled her toes and Peter caught himself looking.

  He pulled his gaze away and grinned at her. “You’ll make them come back into fashion!”

  She tossed him the remaining bundle. “Your turn.”

  As he got behind the screen, she sat down on the bed to watch. “Other than almost breaking yourself, how was work?”

  “Not bad,” said Peter, draping his trousers over the top of the screen. “It actually feels good to work with my hands. Well, not physically. But it feels good to build something. It helps that Mr. Proctor’s sort of taken me under his wing.”