Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  That got Cassie thinking. “Do they need any more volunteers?”

  “Don’t you even think about it. You’ve got school.”

  Cassie laughed. “Not me. Mrs. Smith. If they can help with her room and her food, couldn’t she volunteer there, instead of being a scab? She did seem interested when Mary mentioned it.”

  Mrs. Hopkins looked thoughtful. “I know they could use more help. Why don’t you run over and see if she’s home, let her know she should join me in the kitchen tomorrow. If nothing else, she’ll have some food in her.”

  “What about Mary? She’s not striking; how will she eat?”

  “There are some other girls your age helping. Perhaps she could come too, just to keep her fed while the strike is going on.”

  “What? How come she can skip school and I can’t? Couldn’t I come to the Strathcona too? Maybe they’ll need somebody to peel potatoes. I’m good at that.”

  “You are?” Mrs. Hopkins raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, uh … what I mean is, everybody’s doing something but me. There must be something I could do. There must be.”

  “Are you sure you just don’t want to play hooky?” her mother asked sternly.

  But it wasn’t that. Well … it was that a little. But Cassie could also see the hunger growing in the people around her. She could sense the monumental unfairness of life in Winnipeg, how different life was for the rich and the poor. She wanted to keep families like hers and Mary’s healthy and happy and well paid for their hard work.

  “Say, I’ve got it!” said Billy, snapping his fingers. “Of course! It’d probably be harder than peeling potatoes in some ways, but a lot more fun …”

  “What have you got up your sleeve?” Mrs. Hopkins asked suspiciously.

  “Well, they’re looking for people to sell the strike bulletin on the street. It’s a really important and responsible job, Cassie, because that bulletin brings all the news to the strikers. They need somebody for my corner, Portage and Main. They had a boy, but he has to stay home and help his family. I could keep an eye on you.”

  “Hmmph,” said Mrs. Hopkins. “That’s no job for a girl. She’d be better off underfoot with me than running around as a paperboy.”

  But Cassie loved the idea. “Oh, please, Mum, please. If I don’t like it, then I’ll come and help you. It sounds so exciting. Portage and Main! And think, with the strike bulletin, everyone will know the truth that’s not getting reported in the newspapers.”

  “Most of the people will be friendly,” added Billy, “but you may have to keep an eye out for rich kids.”

  Cassie’s eyes narrowed. What were they doing on the streets?

  “There’s a gang of them,” Billy continued. “They’ve pushed around some of our helpers. No grownup would touch a little girl, but those boys … And then there’s Freddy. You’ll get to know him, I expect.”

  “I know I can do this,” said Cassie, before he said so much her mother would never let her do it. “I can help. When can I start?”

  “We need someone straight away. Tomorrow, if you can.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Mrs. Hopkins said. “But … oh, I guess if you’re nearby, Billy, there’s no harm done.”

  Cassie could hardly wait to tell Mary her mother would be working in the kitchen; she knew it would help convince Mrs. Smith. She ran to Mary’s house to let them know. On the way over, she thought again about what Billy had told her. One thing intrigued her.

  Who was this Freddy?

  CHAPTER 5

  The relief had been clear on Mrs. Smith’s face when Cassie proposed she work at the Labour Café alongside Mrs. Hopkins. Early the next morning, Mary and her mother arrived to meet up with Cassie’s mother and walk over to the Strathcona together. Mary and Cassie exchanged a quick hug and wished each other luck at their new positions — and shared a little quiet glee at missing school.

  “Promise me no matter how tired out you are, we’ll meet tonight so you can tell me everything!” said Mary.

  “Me? Tired? No chance. And I want to hear all about the kitchen, too. I’ll see you tonight,” said Cassie.

  Cassie ran to the James Street Labour Temple to pick up her papers, which had been left just inside the door for all the paperboys and the one papergirl. Feeling very important indeed, she made her way through the streets to the corner of Portage and Main. Along with her pile of papers, she carried a rock to keep her papers from blowing away and a sandwich. She wore a little leather pouch on a belt around her waist filled with change to give customers.

  She was proud and ecstatic at finally being free, but to her surprise, she was also a little afraid. This was her very first job, and she was being trusted with real money and with the message of the strikers. She wondered if she could do it.

  When she got to the corner where she was planning to stand, she noticed somebody already there. He was in the best spot, where all the people were passing by. He had several piles of papers around him with rocks holding them down.

  Cassie stood and looked at him, wondering what to do. Had she misunderstood Billy? Was this boy already passing out the strike bulletin?

  He was about two years older than her, wearing a peaked cap like all the boys, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and knickers. His face was dirty, and underneath the dirt he was a little pale. There were dark circles under his eyes. The peak of his cap was worn in one place, and she saw him tug at it a couple of times — probably the habit that caused the wear. His ears stuck out, and Cassie could see the dirt behind them, as well as the smudges inside his open collar. And to top it all off, there was a homemade cigarette dangling from his mouth. He kept it in the corner of his mouth as if by magic or some special glue, as he held his paper up and bawled at the top of his lungs, “GET-cher PAY-per HEE-ar! READ ALL ABOUT IT!”

  Hmm. He looked poor, so he should be on the side of the labourers, but could that be a newspaper he was selling? Cassie got a bit closer and saw that it was indeed the Tribune.

  He continued yelling, “Reds want revolution! Agitators loose in city! Send the aliens back!”

  Cassie was shocked. She knew there were many who opposed the strike, but not the poor people who knew how unfair things were.

  The boy stopped for a minute and looked at Cassie with her armload of papers. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it on the sidewalk with his boot. She noticed there was a hole in the toe of his boot and he didn’t have any socks.

  She stood there, unsure what to do, squinting into the sun. A man patted her on the shoulder. “Say, little girl, can I have a bulletin?” He held up a nickel.

  Cassie remembered the important job she was meant to be doing.

  “Uh … ’scuse me, sir … sorry.” She scrambled to pull out a single paper from the pile, almost dropping them all. She decided to put down her rock first, then took the man’s nickel. She stole a glance at the boy. He was glaring at her with his hand on his hip.

  After the man left, the boy said, “Hey, kid. You, with the Bolshie news. This is my turf. Now beat it.”

  “This is your what?” asked Cassie politely.

  “Turf. Territory. This is my corner, dummy, can’t you see? How’m I gonna sell my papers with you hangin’ around with the enemy rag?”

  “What are you selling?” asked Cassie.

  “The big paper. The real paper. GET-cher PAY-per HEE-ar!” he yelled.

  He sounds like a hungry calf, thought Cassie, giggling to herself. Then she straightened up. “Hey!” she said. “You sell the Citizens’ Committee paper, I sell the strikers’ paper. There’s no competition ’cause they’re two different stories.”

  “Not on yer life, kid. Now beat it.”

  Cassie wasn’t about to give any ground. If she messed this up, she might be taken off the task altogether and sent back to school, while Mary had all the adve
ntures. She stomped her foot.

  “I won’t beat it. I have as much right to this corner as you have. This is public property in a free country!” She thought of telling him about Billy, her policeman brother nearby, but Billy always told her to fight her own battles.

  “Look, kid, you don’t have to own a corner to own it. I’ve been here for two years, and nobody is going to tell me to move.

  “Well nobody’s going to tell me to move either, so there.”

  “Move?” he yelled. “You haven’t even started standing anywhere yet.” He put down his papers and walked up to Cassie. He was a few inches taller than she was, and when she looked up into his hard little eyes, she was a bit afraid. “Now see here, whatever-your-name-is …”

  “It’s Cassie. Cassie Hopkins.”

  “Just see here, you. This is my corner. You don’t even have to sell papers; you probably think it’s some kind of lark. Well, I work every day here. When it rains, I’m here. When it snows, I’m here. When the wind blows like a screaming banshee and turns my guts to icicles, I’m here. I don’t sell papers for fun, or because I’m a goody-goody. I sell papers for money. To get money. To eat.”

  “What about school? What about your parents?” Cassie blurted out, and immediately she could have kicked herself. She knew how many parents had died in the last few years, between the war and the flu.

  “I don’t go to school anymore. That stopped when my old man got sick. He worked seventy-seven hours a week in a factory. Made sixteen dollars a week. Think that was enough for us? His health gave out and there’s seven of us kids in the family. My mother gets sick a lot too. Specially in winter, she gets to coughing and all that. I had a little baby sister, she died last year. Pneumonia.” He had slowed his speech and looked off in the distance. Then, as if remembering where he was, he shook himself and continued. “This corner is very, very important. I fought for it and I won it. I got my customers coming every day. They know where to find me. I got to be here. And I ain’t movin’ for no Bolshie like you.”

  Cassie felt sympathetic. His story was undeniably familiar to her — and it even made Mary’s life look easy by comparison. At least Mary was getting an education.

  But she was puzzled, too. Of all people, this boy should have been standing with the strikers, demanding a better deal for all the workers in Winnipeg who were suffering, like his father, and yet he was calling her names. She couldn’t understand it. She thought she shouldn’t ask any more questions. Maybe she could be his friend instead of his enemy.

  “All right,” said Cassie. “I understand better now. I won’t invade your corner. You can have it. Tell me where I should stand. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Frederick S. Wolchinsky. Freddy for short,” he said grudgingly.

  So this was Freddy.

  “What is the S for?”

  “Stanislawo. Like Stanley. It’s Ukrainian.” He said this last part like a challenge.

  An immigrant. Selling papers that called him an alien. Poor Freddy, thought Cassie. Just as her mum always said, you think you’re badly off ’cause you’ve got no shoes, till you meet somebody who has no feet. This boy was so dependent on the money from his job, so afraid of losing it, that he had to take the side of the very people who were hurting him.

  “Okay. Hi, Freddy. Tell me where I can stand.”

  “Let’s see. Go about twenty feet farther back. Keep goin’. Keep goin’. Now stop. You can sell your papers there. I don’t think we’ll have no conflict.”

  “Maybe people will buy both papers,” she called to him. She wondered if you could be on both sides at once.

  “Both of ’em?” said Freddy incredulously. He was losing his toughness in spite of himself. “Listen, if people buy both of ’em, they got more money than sense. GET-cher PAY-per HEE-ar!”

  Cassie admired his pluck despite his bad fortune. His cap was at a jaunty angle, and he was tough and hardworking.

  Cassie thought she’d better yell too. But what? She cleared her throat and began. “STEE-rike PAY-per!” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Stee-RIKE PAY-per.” Better. People started to buy the bulletin, and she was in business.

  The sun was getting hot. Cassie noticed Freddy had a jar of water. He stopped and took at drink. He saw her looking at him.

  “Want some?”

  Cassie nodded. He walked over and she took a long drink.

  “Don’t take it all, greedy,” he said. “Next time, you should bring your own.” He winked at her and walked back to his corner. He sat down on the sidewalk cross-legged and started to roll a cigarette.

  “What do you smoke those awful things for?” called Cassie.

  “Taste good,” Freddy called back. “I roll my own because I can’t afford tailor-mades. And once you start” — he shrugged — “you can’t stop.”

  “Well, why’d you start?” Her voice was starting to get sore and she wandered a little closer to him.

  “Oh, wanted to feel like a big shot, I guess. Ain’t nothin’ like ’em for relaxin’.”

  Cassie made a face. “My mum says they’re bad for you. Stunt your growth.”

  “Yeah, and bread crusts give you curly hair.” Freddy gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough. “Say, Cassie, what you want to be when you grow up?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but maybe a typewriter girl. I don’t want to get married right away. I’d like to be out in the world, that is if I can get the training.”

  “Know what I want to be? I want to be the boss. The Big Boss. I want to sit up there in one of them buildings in a big office with my feet on the desk and smoke a big cigar. I want to drive a big car, so people will look up at me and say, ‘There goes Mr. Frederick S. Wilson.’ Have to change my name, of course, so people won’t know I’m Ukrainian. People don’t like Ukrainians. Rich people don’t, anyway. Maybe I’ll own a newspaper or something. Then I could hire you. You could be a reporter. How about that? A girl reporter.”

  Cassie smiled; she was pretty sure those didn’t exist. Then she stretched her neck to look up to the big stone cornices and windows and ledges that rose endlessly above her. It was a long way up. The buildings were very tall. She wondered how Freddy could even imagine himself up there. She wondered if he’d live long enough to see the day. With all his problems, she couldn’t quite see him in a suit with his feet up on the desk, the Big Man smoking the Big Cigar. That would probably be the MacKenzies. This wasn’t a world where the Freddies could become Big Men. Cassie wondered if it could ever be.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Billy came to let her know it was time to go, Cassie was tired out after all, but she’d sold all but two of the bulletins.

  “Good job, squirt,” said Billy. “It seems like you handled old Freddy pretty well, too.”

  “I guess,” said Cassie. “He’s not as bad as he seemed at first.”

  They were rounding the corner to their house when Cassie spotted Mary and their mothers approaching from the other direction. Despite her tired feet, Cassie ran to meet them.

  “Well?” she asked. “How was it?”

  All three answered at once: “Wonderful!”

  They laughed.

  “I’ll tell you what, they seemed to like my biscuits,” said Mrs. Hopkins, beaming. “I’ll go in and get supper on — just for today, mind. We’ve been run off our feet. Mary and Anna, you’re welcome to stay, although as you know it will be quite simple fare.”

  Mrs. Smith shook her head. “No, no. We’ll be just fine. We both had a big dinner. Thank you, though. And thank you for the invitation to work with you today.” She turned to her daughter. “Mary, you can tell Cassie about your day, and then come right home, you hear? We’ll have another long day tomorrow.”

  As she walked away, Mary turned to Cassie. Her eyes were sparkling. “Cassie, it really was wonderful. There were so many girls there that we got to feed, who
wouldn’t have food otherwise. I was mostly in the kitchen scrubbing dishes, but I got to hear all the grownups talking. I even saw Mrs. Armstrong!”

  “Who?” said Cassie.

  “Mrs. Armstrong! You know, the leader of the Women’s Labour League? She’s helped a lot of the girls unionize. She was right there! She smiled at me! I’ve never met a woman like her. I didn’t know there were women like her. And she was so kind to my mother. She took her aside to ask if we have enough money for the flat. I think she saw how skinny Mama is and was worrying about her.”

  It gave Cassie a thrill to imagine a woman having so much authority.

  “What about you?” asked Mary. “How was it being a real live paperboy?”

  “Papergirl, thank you very much. And it was … interesting. My throat hurts a little from all the shouting, but I met so many people who are on our side.” She paused. “And I met one who really, really isn’t.”

  “Ooh, a fat cat walking by? I hope you gave him heck.”

  “Nothing like that, or maybe I would’ve. No, there was a boy there selling the newspaper, but it didn’t make sense to me, really. He’s an immigrant from a very poor family that he’s supporting just with his wages. Neither of his parents can work, but he’s selling that awful paper full of lies and calling out the terrible things it reports. I know he needs the money, but I don’t know why he doesn’t realize that this strike is for people exactly like him.”

  Mary scowled. “Sounds like a fool. Keep your distance from traitors like him.”

  Cassie laughed. “Why, you’re becoming quite the radical! Just one day with this Mrs. Armstrong and you’re a proper Red, aren’t you?”

  Mrs. Hopkins opened the front door and called, “Cassie, I need you to come in and do the sweeping, please.”

  “No rest for the working girl,” said Cassie happily to Mary. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow morning again? I missed you all day.”