Water's Edge

by Genevieve Fortin

  “Oh, Angeline. I understand,” her father said as he rubbed Angeline’s hand with his large, callused fingers. “It really is unfair. You see, we can afford to keep you in school longer because we have seven wages to pay for this household and still save some money. Your older siblings didn’t go to school as long as you did either, Angeline. We needed help. Just like Emilie’s parents need help. It’s unfair, perhaps, but that’s the way it is. You’re the lucky one, Angeline.”

  “But I don’t want to be the lucky one, Papa,” Angeline said as she felt tears welling up in her eyes. “It makes me feel terrible. Please. Can I go to work with Emilie?”

  Angeline felt her father wrap his strong arms around her and she cried against his chest. “Do you think that’s what Emilie would want, my girl?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered weakly.

  “I do. Your friend wouldn’t want you to leave school, Angeline.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Emilie would want you to go to school and learn everything she can’t learn in school with you. She’d want you to work hard and remember everything so you can share it with her. That’s what she’d want. I’m sure of it.”

  “Really?” Angeline asked as the tears subsided.

  “Really. That’s how you can make what’s unfair a little bit better, my girl. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You’re right, Papa.”

  Her father hugged Angeline again and kissed her forehead before leaving the bedroom. Angeline turned in her bed to face the window, armed with a new sense of purpose. She would not disappoint Emilie.

  Chapter Six

  June 1891

  Emilie was used to the sound of the siren calling mill workers every morning at five a.m. and she was used to being up that early. Her mother helped her prepare for work while her father helped Joseph. The preparation was brief. Emilie’s mother gave her an apron to wear over her everyday brown skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse. She explained that the short sleeves were to make the heat more bearable but also to avoid getting a sleeve caught in machinery. To protect her hair from the same machinery, she wore it in a tight chignon on top of her head, just like her mother.

  Joseph wore denim overalls and a white shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Henri told both of them that all they needed to do was exactly what they were told and wished them luck on their first day. Then they walked to the mill together.

  The large granite building had been there all along, but it was as if Emilie really noticed it for the first time. It seemed like all of Flint was moving in its direction, like the ants she’d observed at the farm, all lined up and following each other until they disappeared under a large rock. The cotton mill was their rock. Their enormous, granite rock.

  When they entered the building, the heat and humidity stopped Emilie in her tracks. She’d thought the apartment was hot, but it was nothing compared to the thick, suffocating wall of breathless air she’d just walked into. She started sweating right away. She looked at her brother and saw droplets of perspiration on his forehead as well. Her mother had told her the humidity was necessary to keep the cotton thread from breaking, but Emilie wasn’t expecting this much. She had to tell herself to take another breath before she could keep following her mother to the spinning room with Joseph. Their father, Jean-Baptiste and Edouard disappeared in the direction of the blowing room where Emilie knew they worked even though she wasn’t sure what they did.

  As she slowly adapted to the heat and humidity, Emilie realized that the cotton dust floating everywhere probably didn’t help her breathe any easier. The cacophony of the machinery and the strong smell of sweat, cotton and machine oil aggressed her other senses, yes, but she kept thinking that if she could at least breathe a little easier, she could get used to the rest of it. Her mother assured her she would get used to breathing in the air of the mill as well, but Emilie thought she didn’t look that convinced herself.

  The spinning room was divided into fifteen long rows of machinery. Mathilde started working immediately while Emilie and Joseph had to follow a man who started explaining what their job would be. The man didn’t say what his name was or ask what theirs were. Names were not important. He yelled his instructions, partly because he had to over the noise of the machines, but also partly because, Emilie imagined, he seemed to enjoy yelling through his thick mustache.

  The man explained that the bobbins on top of the machines were filled with roving, a cotton fiber that was clean but not tight enough to be weaved into cloth yet. The spinning process took that roving and made it pass through rollers at high speed, literally spinning it. Spinning tightened the fiber into thread. As a spinner, Emilie’s job was to move quickly up and down a row of machinery and repair breaks and snags in the roving. She would wear around her waist a case to carry a pair of scissors, her only tools.

  As a doffer, Joseph’s job would be to replace empty bobbins with new ones as quickly as possible. No matter what their job was, their first and most important duty was to keep the machines going at all times. When a machine had to be stopped temporarily, their job was to get it started again, and fast. “Stoppage means loss. Stoppage means loss.” The man repeated the words a few times, looking straight into their eyes. His goal was to scare them and it worked. The man’s speech lasted no more than ten minutes but Emilie already felt more pressure than she’d felt her entire life.

  Before he left to do more important things, the man told them they would be observing for the rest of the day but were expected to be fully functional and productive by Monday morning. The job was not, after all, that hard to learn, he added. Joseph was paired with a boy barely older than he was, Martin, who had been a doffer for two years already. Emilie was lucky enough to be paired with her mother.

  She realized very quickly that observing was indeed the way she would learn her job. Her mother had to keep her working speed and didn’t have time to stop to answer a question. Besides, the machines were making too much noise for a question to be heard in the first place. No, the only information available was visual and the only tools she was given to assimilate that information were her eyes. She watched as her mother moved up and down the row she was assigned to, cut roving that was problematic, made knots at lightning speed. Everything happened so quickly that at first Emilie couldn’t see the problems her mother spotted so easily or understand how they were repaired. Slowly, though, she started to notice the same problems her mother did and understand how to repair them. Toward the end of day, she attempted a few repairs of her own and although they were not perfect her mother seemed happy with her progress.

  Joseph appeared to learn just as quickly. She saw him replace a few empty bobbins by himself as Martin watched. He was not as fast as Martin, of course, but he wasn’t as slow as some of the other boys she’d seen either. Emilie didn’t hate her first day of work as much as she’d feared. She was learning. It wasn’t the kind of learning that required books or school. But it was learning nonetheless. The hours went by fast and when the sirens announced the end of the day, Emilie was surprised to find out she was almost used to the thick wet air she was breathing.

  Until she stepped outside and fresh air penetrated her lungs. She took a few deep breaths and smiled. She was free. She would go home and have dinner and then go visit Angeline for a few minutes. That was the plan. But Emilie was so exhausted she fell asleep at the table in the middle of dinner and barely was conscious enough to notice her father lifting her up and taking her to bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, she thought as she yawned, her eyelids too heavy to open her eyes. She would see Angeline tomorrow.

  The buttonwood tree Angeline and Emilie called their own was located by the river but far enough from the water’s edge that they were rarely bothered by any of the other children. They usually sat on the ground by the large trunk, the generous foliage above acting as a roof over their heads. Protected by their tree, their sanctuary, they felt like they could say anything they wanted and no one could
ever hear them.

  Right after lunch on Sunday Angeline ran to their tree, anxious to see Emilie and hear all about her first day at the mill. She was disappointed that Emilie hadn’t visited her the night before as promised, but realized she might have been too tired. She hoped she was indeed just too tired and not hurt by the machinery, as accidents were common. She’d stayed awake part of the night worrying about her best friend. Both disappointment and worry rushed back to her when she arrived at the buttonwood tree and didn’t find Emilie sitting there, leaning against the trunk, reading a book as she waited for her. Emilie always beat her to the tree. Something had to be wrong. Angeline was seriously considering walking to the Levesque’s apartment to find out when Emilie finally arrived.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Emilie said anxiously.

  “I just got here. I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Me too,” Emilie declared with a weak smile.

  Angeline hugged her friend, instantly relieved to see her. Emilie had always been smaller than her but now in her arms she seemed even more delicate. Angeline held her at arm’s length and examined her. Emilie also looked paler than usual. She wore a dark brown skirt and close-fitting brown blouse, her everyday, severe attire contrasting with Angeline’s own white Sunday dress, embellished with thin light blue stripes, pleats over her bosom, and a slight puff in the sleeves. “Are you all right, Emilie? Was it awful? I was so worried about you.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. I really wanted to see you, believe me, but I couldn’t even stay awake through dinner. I don’t think I’ll be able to see you as often as we planned.”

  Angeline saw Emilie’s eyes well up with tears and her heart sank. So unfair, she thought again for the thousandth time in three days. Emilie was too small, too fragile for such hard work. She looked up at the thick leaves of their buttonwood tree, realizing that, just like herself, they were powerless to protect Emilie from this situation. Angeline closed her eyes in resignation. She couldn’t change what was happening. All she could do was support her friend the best she could. So she put on a smile before she looked at her friend again in an attempt to reassure her. “Don’t worry about it, Emilie. It doesn’t make sense for you to visit me after a day at the mill. We’ll have Sundays, right?”

  “Right,” Emilie repeated, her voice breaking as tears started to fall.

  All Angeline wanted to do was to hold Emilie and cry with her for a few hours, but that wasn’t what they both needed, so she took a deep breath and took both of Emilie’s hands, shaking her gently. “That’s right, and we’re not going to spend it crying. We’ve got better things to do, my dear friend. Like talk about how Arthur just proposed to Louise, for example.” Angeline was relieved when she saw a smile on Emilie’s face. Her diversion seemed to work.

  “No! Your sister is really going to get married to that idiot?”

  “That idiot just inherited a farm in the region of Estrie so yes, she’s going to marry him.”

  “I can’t believe it. What do your parents think about it?”

  “Believe it or not, my mother is thrilled about it. My father is just disappointed the farm is in Estrie instead of the Bas-du-fleuve, where we come from. He says it’s the most beautiful region in Canada.”

  “He’s probably right about that, Angeline. It really is beautiful.”

  Angeline was surprised to hear a nostalgic tone in Emilie’s voice when she talked about their homeland. Emilie rarely even talked about Rimouski, unlike her brother Joseph who couldn’t stop talking about it. She’d never seemed to miss it at all.

  Emilie added, “Maybe Louise is doing the right thing, after all.”

  “You can’t really think that way, Emilie. One should marry for love, not for a situation. You’ve told me that so many times. Remember? You can’t be telling me you approve of my sister’s decision now. I don’t believe you.” The cotton mill had to be even worse than Angeline had thought if her friend was ready to reconsider all the romantic notions she’d read about in her books and had shared with Angeline over the years.

  “No, no, of course not,” Emilie replied, as if Angeline’s words had brought back convictions she’d temporarily forgotten. “I don’t approve of her decision, Angeline. I’m just saying it can be understandable. Real life is not like books, after all.”

  “Maybe not, but promise me that if I ever consider getting married for any other reason than love, you won’t let me.” Emilie didn’t answer quickly enough for Angeline so she insisted. “Promise me, Emilie.”

  Emilie smiled at Angeline and appeared to be weighing her words very carefully before she spoke. “I promise I won’t let my best friend get married to anyone unless I’m thoroughly convinced that marrying that person will make her happy. Satisfied?”

  Angeline smiled and nodded but at the same time she tried to decide if Emilie had just manipulated words to sound like she’d said one thing while she meant another, an art Angeline knew her friend mastered all too well.

  Chapter Seven

  September 1893

  After lunch on the first Sunday of September, fourteen-year-old Emilie took Pleasant Street and started walking west toward Main Street. The Levesques rarely ventured outside of Flint Village but Emilie was determined. Her parents wouldn’t approve if they knew where she was really going; they thought she was meeting with Angeline as usual. Sundays with Angeline had been sacred for the past two years but Angeline too was now working as a spinner at the mill and Emilie saw her every day, so she didn’t feel guilty about doing something different on this specific Sunday. Her destination: Fall River’s town hall, where she’d recently learned from a conversation overheard at work that a library was open to the public.

  Emilie craved books. She needed to learn something new. Her life was stagnant. It had not taken her long to learn her job as a spinner. It was repetitive, boring, stultifying. For two years Angeline had shared what she’d learned in school with Emilie. They’d gone over every topic discussed in class, Emilie’s questions making Angeline dig deep in her memory and notes, sometimes even forcing her to ask questions of her own during class so she could satisfy Emilie’s thirst for knowledge. They had even done Angeline’s homework together. Emilie had almost felt like she was still going to school. She was grateful to Angeline for sharing that part of her life with her. Now that Angeline wasn’t going back to school, Emilie had to find a new source of knowledge. The idea of a space where books were available to the public was exhilarating and gave her steps lightness and speed that her walks to and from the mill could never duplicate.

  Unlike the streets of Flint that were nothing but wide dirt paths, Pleasant Street and Main Street were bordered with sidewalks. Streetcars were circulating on the tracks laid in the middle of the road while horse-drawn carriages traveled on either side. The architecture was also a lot more interesting than the triple-deckers of Flint. It seemed every building had been built with a lot of thought. Emilie slowed down when she reached Borden Block and walked in front of the Academy of Music, where she knew live concerts were held. She was happy to be reminded that there was more to Fall River than cotton dust and machine oil, despite the fact that her access to those other activities was limited if not entirely blocked.

  Emilie finally arrived at the town hall and stopped in front of the stone building, suddenly intimidated. Did she even belong here? She’d never seen a building this beautiful other than churches. The town hall even had a bell tower. Instead of being topped with a cross, however, this bell tower was decorated with large clocks on each of its four sides. Fall River had no excuse not to be on time for everything, Emilie mused.

  She took a deep breath and looked down to evaluate her appearance. She was wearing a white Sunday dress with blue stripes Angeline had given to her because it had become too small for her. At fourteen, Angeline was a fully grown woman and had all the necessary curves. Emilie had finally grown up too and she was now only two inches shorter than Angeline, but she still had the
shape of a young girl, a shape she was beginning to fear she would keep all of her life. She didn’t fill Angeline’s dress as well as Angeline had two years ago, but she still looked clean and decent.

  She took another breath, made sure the pale blue ribbon added to her simple sailor straw hat was in place, and started walking toward the building. She pulled on the door handle, pushed, pulled again, but the large door didn’t move.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Emilie turned toward the low-pitched, soft but distinctively female voice and came face-to-face with the most elegant woman she’d ever seen. Her features were delicate, modest, a stage for piercing blue eyes that demanded attention. She was probably ten years older than Emilie, and obviously from a higher social standing, judging by the rich fabric of her fashionable dress and the undoubtedly expensive black hat heavily decorated with chiffon and feathers.

  Emilie hesitated. She was intimidated, and not just because of the woman’s higher social and financial class. She had learned English and could speak it very well but had never been able to rid herself of a heavy French Canadian accent that betrayed her origins as soon as she opened her mouth. The woman would know she came straight out of Flint Village’s little Canada as soon as she spoke and for some reason she didn’t want her to know. She sighed and finally answered. “I was looking for the public library.”

  “Oh dear. It’s closed on Sundays,” the woman answered with a compassionate smile.

  Emilie’s shoulders fell forward and she sighed again, this time with frustration. “What? When are people supposed to use it, then?” As she asked the question Emilie realized she’d been an idiot to think a public library could be open to factory workers like her.