Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  “What d’you hear on the strike, son?” asked Mr. Hopkins. “By the way, your mother’s rationing the butter. She’s decided we can only have it with breakfast from now on.”

  “What, now butter?” Billy rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s big business. It’s their fault I can’t have a bit of butter on my biscuit.”

  “Percy at the station says it’s the fault of the working man. He says prices go up because workers want better wages,” said Mr. Hopkins.

  “Wages have gone up eighteen percent, but prices have gone up eighty percent,” countered Billy. “Do you think that’s fair? The big boys make big profits. The only way is to organize for a decent wage. Let people get paid enough to live on. Anyway, in the end better wages are better for business. What will they do when no one can afford to buy anything anymore?”

  Cassie saw Mary nodding. She knew all about the problems with wages, watching her mother slave away for a pittance. Cassie’s family had been talking about the unfairness in Winnipeg for a year or so, too, although lately their conversations had an uneasy edge to them.

  Cassie thought a minute, running her biscuit around the edge of her dish to scoop up the remaining gravy. “So, what’s organizing got to do with it?”

  “Well, one person alone can’t make anybody do anything. He doesn’t have much power. But thousands of people together, all demanding the same thing, and refusing to work till they get it— well, they might get it.”

  “The news, son, the news,” Mr. Hopkins insisted.

  “Well,” Billy began, “ever since the Ironmasters went out on the first of May —”

  “Where to?” asked Cassie.

  “What? Oh. I mean they went out on strike. They refuse to work until they get higher wages and shorter hours.”

  “But how’re they going to earn money? How’re they going to eat?” This was the first Cassie had heard of the Ironmasters striking.

  “Shh, don’t interrupt,” Mr. Hopkins ordered.

  “No, no, that’s a good question, Cassie. It’s good to be concerned. It’s true, if workers stop working, they stop making a wage. It makes it hard to stand up to the business owners. That’s why we need to do it, though; so that everyone gets paid more in the end. It might not be so bad. Maybe everybody will get together and help. There’s a lot of support.” Billy had an excited gleam in his eye. “In fact, everybody might strike all at once. A general strike.”

  Mr. Hopkins started.

  “A general strike. Is that like a general store?” Cassie snickered.

  “You’re a general disgrace,” Billy said. “A four-star general disgrace.” He reached over and tried to tickle Cassie, but she wriggled away. She passed her empty stew bowl to her mother. “What’s for dessert, Mum?”

  “The very last of my stewed plums.” Mrs. Hopkins beamed. Cassie looked at Billy and made a face. “Ecch,” she said.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, miss,” scolded her mother. “Why, there are people starving in Asia, and you turn your nose up at my plums. The very idea!”

  “We may be starving ourselves in a couple of weeks,” said Billy cheerfully. “I’m really looking forward to it. Nothing to eat. Nothing to eat at all. Think of it, Cassie. Absolutely nothing.”

  Cassie shot him a meaningful look. He glanced Mary’s way and then cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. He’d forgotten how poor some other families in Winnipeg already were.

  Cassie turned her attention to the bowl of stewed plums that had found their way under her nose. It was just the skin she didn’t like. Why couldn’t her mother peel the plums before she cooked them? With a sigh she dug in, carefully separating the skin from the plum proper, and making a pile of skins on one side of the bowl. Mary had no such hang-ups and was happily devouring her bowlful and listening intently.

  Billy swallowed and went on. “Anyway, the men already on strike went to the council for all the unions, and the council got their members to vote on whether to have a general strike or not. So they voted today, and do you know, hardly anyone voted against it.’”

  Mr. Hopkins looked pale. “We’re in for it, mates. Blimey. And what about the police?”

  “We voted a hundred and forty-nine to eleven to support the strike.”

  “Cor. So we’ll be off the job too.”

  “What’ll the city do for protection?” asked Mrs. Hopkins anxiously. “Gracious, I had no idea it was so serious.”

  “Yeah, Billy,” said Cassie. “People will steal, and bad men will murder people and nobody will help them. All the policemen will be at home playing checkers. Ooh, I hope the school strikes too. Then I could go out and play ball. There are some books I’ve been meaning to read, too. Oh, I hope the teachers strike. Will they?”

  “Hold your horses,” said Billy. “First of all, the people in charge of the strike are pretty smart, although the businessmen try to make them look stupid. Do you think they’ll let the city go without any police? They’re smarter than that. If they do, the city could impose martial law.”

  “What’s marshmallow law and where can I get some?” asked Cassie. She was polishing off her stewed plums. She had to admit, the juice was delicious. She scraped the bottom of her dish with her spoon. Her mother had warned her never to pick up her dish and drink out of it.

  “Martial law,” said Billy, ignoring Cassie’s attempt at a joke, “means that the soldiers or the Royal North-West Mounted Police will be in charge and give the orders. So the strike committee, the people in charge, will likely ask us policemen to keep working through the strike, to keep everyone safe. But everybody is supporting it. Bakers, blacksmiths, firemen, sleeping car porters, all kinds of people in low-paying jobs. Richer people will probably still go to work. But I don’t know how they’ll reach their offices if all the elevator operators are out.”

  “They’ll have to walk up!” cried Cassie. Then she asked, “Will we have to go to school? That’s all I want to know.”

  “Well, the schools will probably stay open. The teachers aren’t unionized, and they work for the government.”

  “Oh, now,” Mrs. Hopkins tutted. “You don’t want to miss school anyway, do you? You want to get perfect on your next test. What about beating Barbara MacKenzie?”

  “Ah, she’s not so smart,” said Cassie, her confidence renewed now that her belly was full.

  “She’s pretty smart, Cassie,” said Mary, but she didn’t look very playful.

  “I guess.” Cassie thought for a minute. “But Billy, Barbara MacKenzie will still be there after the strike. I don’t want to miss out on a holiday. Will it be fun? Will it be exciting?”

  “Well, it’ll probably be exciting, but —” said Billy.

  “Cassie, dear,” interrupted Mrs. Hopkins, “a general strike is very serious business. It is not fun. The whole city will shut down. We won’t be able to phone. We might not have lights, or water, or ice, or gas. Oh, David.” She looked at Mr. Hopkins as the seriousness of the situation dawned on her. “We’ll use up all our savings. What are we going to eat?”

  Mr. Hopkins looked down at his empty bowl.

  “Now, now, Mum,” said Billy, patting his mother’s arm. “Not to worry. There’ll be plenty to eat. Everybody will pitch in and help, because everybody will be in the same boat. Don’t you worry now.”

  But Mrs. Hopkins bit her lip and twisted her hands tightly together. Cassie didn’t like it when her mother got worried. It made her feel a little scared, not as safe as she usually felt.

  Suddenly, Mary jumped up and ran to the back door, pulling her jacket on.

  “Mary, where are you going?” asked Cassie.

  “We’ll be late for school,” Mary said.

  “Well, wait for me and I’ll —”

  But Mary opened the door and ran out of the house, calling, “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Hopkins,” over her shoulder.

/>   Cassie turned to her parents as she rose from the table.

  “That was odd. She never leaves without clearing her dishes. Or without me!” She looked at the clock ticking away on the kitchen wall. It said ten minutes to two. “I guess she’s right to rush, though.” She gulped down the last of her milk, wiped her milk moustache off with the back of her hand, and set her dishes on the counter. She quickly put on her jacket and dashed out, letting the screen door bang behind her.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Cassie got back to school — just in time — Mary wasn’t there. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well, Cassie thought, hoping it wasn’t the flu. It had been a month since anyone in their school got sick with the terrible Spanish Influenza, which had killed so many people that winter.

  Cassie found it hard to concentrate, knowing how much was happening. She wanted to tell all her classmates about the general strike ahead, but every time she turned toward someone, her teacher noticed and glared at her till she put her eyes back on her work. Miss Parker was used to Cassie and Mary trying to chat all the way through class. She often said they were two peas in a pod, but not in a cheerful way, the way Cassie’s mother said it. She seemed to expect the worst from the girls and sometimes seemed disappointed at their high marks. She adored Barbara and her friends, always asking them to clean the blackboard and praising their handwriting. She usually followed this up with a pointed glare at Cassie — whose cursive writing, to be fair, was a little lacking.

  It wasn’t that Cassie didn’t like learning. It’s just that class was so boring compared to what she could be doing — gardening, listening to her parents, fishing, riding the streetcars around the city when Billy was willing take them. Last summer, she and Mary had had freedom as soon as their chores were done. Cassie would finish her own, then go help Mary with all of hers, and then they’d spend all afternoon roaming the streets of their neighbourhood and beyond.

  When the bell finally rang and Cassie was free to go, she walked to Mary’s place instead of going straight home. She opened the front door, which hung a little crookedly in its frame, climbed the rickety stairs to Mary’s flat, and knocked. It took a while before Mary came to the door, and when she did, her eyes were puffy and her nose was red.

  Cassie took a step back. “Oh … are you feeling ill? Do you need me to get my mum?”

  Mary shook her head. “I’m not sick.”

  “Well, where were you, then? Miss Parker wasn’t pleased you were gone.”

  Mary’s eyes welled up and she took her ragged hanky out of her sleeve to wipe them. “I’m so worried. My mum and I can barely afford to eat and live as it is. What if her factory goes on strike? What will we do?” She began sobbing, which from the looks of her was about the twentieth time that afternoon.

  Cassie pulled her friend to her and gave her a big hug. “I’m not sure what anyone will do. But we’ll figure it out, okay? You know we’ll always share whatever we have with you, and with your mum too, if she needs it. We can cut each potato into six.”

  Mary gave a small laugh.

  “Besides …” Cassie pulled back and looked into Mary’s eyes. “We might get to miss school.”

  * * *

  On the morning of Thursday, May 15, Cassie could barely sit still. At breakfast, Billy had told her that today was the day.

  “Mark my words, we’re going to change this city once and for all,” he’d said around a mouthful of toast. “Those fat cats won’t know what to do with themselves!”

  Sure enough, at just past eleven, Principal Milne came to the door and asked to speak to Miss Parker in the hallway for a moment. The students were on edge and began to whisper to each other. Cassie whirled around and mouthed to Mary, just behind her, “It’s happening!”

  Mary smiled, but still looked worried.

  When Miss Parker came back into class, she cleared her throat. “Class, as you may have guessed, the strike committee has called a general strike. You may speak with your families about it at dinnertime, but for now, we will continue with our compositions.” There was a collective groan from the class, who could barely stand not to go see what was happening outside.

  “Bunch of Bolshies,” came a voice from the back of the room. Miss Parker glared at the class and they quieted down, but not happily.

  Cassie knew that voice. Barbara MacKenzie. Of course she didn’t want the strike to happen — her father was a fancy lawyer, and his clients wouldn’t be making any money to pay him without workers doing their bidding.

  The clock inched its way towards noon, and even before the bell rang, the children were out of their desks, jamming through the doors, most cheering and running down the hallways out the front door of the school. Cassie waited for Mary at the front steps, and together they raced towards Portage Avenue to see what was going on. Despite her worries, Mary’s face was as flushed with excitement as everyone else’s.

  The streets were as they’d never seen them before. They were full of people — people who usually worked. Boys and girls and men and women came pouring out of the buildings and into the street. Everybody was walking; the streetcars had stopped running. Everyone looked happy, as if they were just beginning a long vacation.

  “I bet the bosses are mad,” said Mary. “It would take a lot of nerve to stop working when your boss didn’t want you to.” Her colour faded a little. “I should go see if my mum’s home.”

  * * *

  The first night of the strike, Cassie lay in her little bed in her room upstairs. Her mind was going sixty miles a minute and the air was full of electricity. Cassie could hear her mother and father talking quietly downstairs. Billy was away at yet another meeting. Usually, if she lay very still and held her breath, she could hear almost everything her mother and father said to one another. And she usually tried so hard to be silent that she’d fall asleep long before this. But her eyes were wide open. She had to go back to school tomorrow, too. She wondered if there was any way she could get out of school while the strike was still on. She hoped they wouldn’t stop the strike before she’d been able to really experience it.

  Often in the evenings, Mrs. Hopkins would either do some knitting or darn Mr. Hopkins’s socks so they would last a few more months. (Whenever Cassie saw her father with his boots off and a toe coming through his black socks, she’d sing, “Mr. White is out of jail again,” and Mrs. Hopkins would get very upset and start looking for her sewing basket.) Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins would sit by the fireplace in the parlour. Mr. Hopkins would relax and smoke his pipe, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, and his suspenders hanging down around his waist. And Mrs. Hopkins would mend and mend. Sometimes, she turned the collars and cuffs of her husband’s and son’s shirts so that the worn part would be inside where nobody could see it. Sometimes she patched sheets, but those she usually sewed on her treadle sewing machine.

  Tonight, Cassie could hear the crinkle of the newspaper Mr. Hopkins was reading. He puffed on his pipe, his puffs getting shorter and puffier and angrier as he read. He crackled the paper, turning page after page, and finally there came a big sound as he then tossed it down in disgust.

  “I don’t know what to make of it, Ruth,” he said. “The paper’s got it all wrong. They say the strikers are trying to start a revolution, to overthrow the government and cause violence and bloodshed, burn down houses, kill people. Now, we know that isn’t true. Blimey, they’re even calling us Bolshies. Bolshevists are Russian revolutionaries, I know that much. But we’re not Russian, and we’re not revolutionaries. We just want peace and quiet and honest work for enough money to keep us going.”

  “I don’t want to have to take in laundry,” said Mrs. Hopkins, tugging at her yarn. “I’m not so sure this strike’s a good thing. What, I ask you, is everybody going to eat? There are twenty-five thousand people striking. With no money, there’s no food. What will we eat, for goodness’ sake?”

  “Sure
ly we have enough vegetables stowed away in the cellar to last us for a week,” said Mr. Hopkins. “And there’s always oatmeal, we have plenty of that. Don’t fret, luvvy; it’ll be all right.”

  “If the strike goes over a week, we’ll be just as badly off as everybody else.”

  “It never will. Stop your worrying.”

  Cassie could feel herself starting to worry too. So she did what she sometimes did in the evening, and crept from her bed. Silently, she crossed her little room and opened the door, then snuck to the very top of the stairs and sat where she could spy on her parents through the open parlour door. Sitting here, she could hear her parents much more clearly.

  She watched as her mother snipped the yarn with her sewing scissors. Then Mrs. Hopkins held her darning needle up to the light, squinting at it with one eye as she put the yarn through it. She started in darning again, holding the wooden darning foot under the hole in the sock to have a surface to weave the yarn against.

  “If we don’t have enough to eat, we’ll get sick. Sure thing, I’ve seen that happen — think of all those poor souls with the Spanish flu. And when you’re sick, you can’t work, and there’s no money.”

  “I’m not worried, Ruth. Do you see me worrying? Billy’s out getting all worked up, while I’m content to sit at home of a night with the missus, reading the paper. Except the paper’s wrong! Blast! What’s a man to do? I need something to occupy my mind.”

  “You can always read the Bible,” Mrs. Hopkins said.

  Mr. Hopkins turned at the sound of the back door opening. Billy came in and began talking before he’d even taken his hat off.

  “I’ve just been to a meeting of the returned soldiers. The leaders of their organizations tried to get them to stand against the strikers. But they decided they were for the strikers and would do their darnedest to preserve law and order! It’s grand. There are about ten thousand of them. Their support means a lot.”