Flower Page 8
Would you have gone, Helen? Why not? I thought. For a moment I dreamed of what it would mean–to be part of a band of wanderers, to make my home in a wagon, to wear rings on my fingers, and silver hoops in my ears. At night, around the campfire, there would be music and dancing. Mrs. Florence said she had seen the Gypsies in their campground.
I was tempted to say yes, but I could never really be one of them. I would always be an outsider wanting to stay in one place and make a home. I thanked the girl and watched her go, her red skirt swinging from side to side as she moved gracefully through the grass on her slender bare feet. She stopped at the gate, turned, and waved to me in farewell. I waved back, but dropped my arm quickly at the sight of the sisters returning to the house.
“How dare you let a Gypsy into the yard. They are all thieves! What did she want?” Mrs. Dunn said, glaring at me. I don’t know what got into me, but I told her that the girl had asked me to go along with her.
I thought Mrs. Dunn would explode; her face turned as red as a beet. “No doubt she recognized you as kin,” she said, and walked away in a rage, leaving Miss Alice and me to follow her indoors.
Miss Alice said, “You’ll not leave this kitchen until you’ve finished the ironing, and when that’s done, I want the stove cleaned out.”
It was three o’clock before I’d finished and I was dizzy with hunger, not having eaten my lunch. Miss Alice decided she needed oranges to make a fruit salad and sent me out for a dozen. She gave me forty cents, and told me not to lose the change.
The market was bustling and there were several people waiting in front of me. I closed my fingers tightly around the nickel, when the Italian fruit-seller gave me my change, and hurried away.
On my way back, I had to pass by the Oriental Hotel. It’s said to be the grandest of all the hotels in Peterborough, with private bathrooms and electric lights in all the rooms. A smartly uniformed nursemaid waited on the steps, trying to restrain a little girl, not much more than a baby, who was hugging a ball and jumping up and down. The nursemaid turned her head to speak to the doorman, letting go of the child’s hand, and in that instant, the little girl dropped her ball and ran after it.
It all happened in seconds. The red ball bounced into the gutter and rolled between the hooves of a pair of black horses pulling an elegant carriage, just coming to a stop in front of the hotel. I heard the coachman shout whoa as I threw myself off the boardwalk, my oranges flying in all directions, to grab the child away from the stamping hooves.
The nursemaid was screaming hysterically; the little girl crying, “Ball, ball.” I’d ripped my apron and scraped my elbow, but the child was safe. By this time, her mother had jumped out of the carriage and onto the boardwalk. She took the little one into her arms and was crying over her, holding her tightly against her silk gown.
I gathered up my oranges, wiped the dust off them, picked up the ball, and gave it to the little girl before the nursemaid took her inside.
Her mother turned to me, put her hand gently on my arm, and said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my little girl from a terrible accident! Your mother will be so worried about you, anxious that you have been delayed on your errand. Driver, please take this young lady home.” She gave me her calling card and said she would be staying in the hotel for a few more days. Then she pressed five whole dollars into my hand, as a reward for my courage.
“There is no need for this, ma’am. I’m happy the little girl came to no harm,” I said, but she insisted I take it. The driver opened the door, asked where I lived, and drove me back. Luckily, I was not too late returning from my errand.
When I gave Miss Alice her change, a blister had formed in my palm from holding the nickel so tightly. I explained that I’d had a fall, that there’d been an accident, but she wasn’t interested. She just sent me to change my apron, wash my hands, get the oranges peeled and sliced, and the table set for supper.
After I’d made the last pot of tea for the evening, Miss Alice gave me a list of chores to do for the following day. She and Mrs. Dunn planned to leave for Bethel next morning to visit some cousins on their farm outside Peterborough, and would not be back until after supper. I was told to rinse the tea leaves that night and sprinkle them on the parlor carpet, so I could give the carpet a thorough brushing in the morning. Mrs. Dunn had complained the dust in the room was intolerable. I was not to forget to scrub the kitchen and scullery and put a cupful of vinegar in the last rinse, to keep the ants away.
For supper, I was to serve the remains of the cold roast beef, make potato cakes, hot biscuits, and a mixed salad. Then I was to stew apples and serve them with a vanilla sauce for dessert. If I had time on my hands, as I was bound to, the scullery windows were a disgrace, and should have been washed without my having to be told.
Before they left in the morning, Mrs. Dunn, who had not spoken to me since she’d seen the Gypsy, reminded me that while a mistress was away, her orders must be carried out as if she were there. “I shall do my best, ma’am,” I answered, scarcely able to contain my excitement.
I set to work, flying from room to room. There was no lunch to prepare, as the present boarders did not normally return until the evening meal.
Do you remember how you and I had days out, Helen? I’ve never forgotten, and I’ve often dreamed of another such day. I stayed awake almost the whole night planning what I was going to do with the hour or two I’d have free before I needed to prepare supper.
By noon the floors gleamed, the woodwork shone, and the carpets were brushed. I went upstairs to wash, put on my Sunday dress, and tie up my hair with a Sunday ribbon before strolling out of the house, swinging my hips the way the Gypsy girl had done. Then, as I got near to the Bank of Toronto, I walked more sedately. I had to take a deep breath to give myself courage (as I had never been in a bank before), went in, approached the counter, and asked the clerk to please give me change for a five-dollar bill.
My next stop was at the stationery shop for paper, envelopes, and a pencil. That took care of almost a whole dollar.
I had heard the girls in school talk about Fowler’s Ice-cream Parlor. It was where their mothers and aunts took them for a special treat. Today was my special treat. I was having a day out. It would have been nice to tell the girls that I’d been to the ice-cream parlor too, but I’d be fourteen in two months’ time and had finished with school. Mrs. Dunn had permitted me to go for only a few weeks because she said I was needed at the house due to her ill health. I didn’t mind too much; I’d learnt to read and write at the Girls’ Village Home school in Essex.
When the waitress, looking smart in her black dress and lace apron and cap, handed me the menu, I was too nervous to speak and just pointed to the first item without reading it. The young lady brought me two scoops of vanilla ice cream in a silver dish. There was a wafer, shaped like a three cornered hat, and a glace cherry on top of each scoop. Nothing in my whole life had ever tasted better than that first delicious bite, Helen. There was a glass of water to drink, too.
After I’d finished, I took a piece of my new stationery and composed a letter right there in the ice-cream parlor.
Wednesday, July 7, 1909
Dear Madam,
I hope your little girl has suffered no ill effects from her fright yesterday. It was very kind of you to send me home in a carriage and to reward me so generously. It is the first time that I have had money of my very own.
My name is Lillie Bridges. I will be fourteen years old in September. I have been working as a domestic at Mrs. Dunn’s boarding house, on Water Street, for the last two years.
I arrived in Canada in 1907, one of a group of Barnardo orphans. I used to help take care of the younger children in the Girls’ Village Home in Essex, England. I like looking after little ones very much.
Please forgive me for troubling you, but perhaps you might hear of a situation where a family has need of an honest hardworking girl.
I remain,
Yours respectfully,
Lillie Bridges
Reading the letter through again, I wished my penmanship was more elegant. Ever since I was a small girl, there’d been reprimands for writing with my left hand. They’d forced me to use my right, and now I don’t write well with either.
I got up from the table, left a five-cent tip, and walked over to the Oriental Hotel to deliver my envelope. The doorman touched his cap. He recognized me and promised to hand over my letter himself.
I’m too old to skip, and girls don’t whistle, so instead, I sang under my breath all the way back to the boarding house.
When the sisters came in, complaining about the long tiring drive, I’d finished scrubbing the pots, swept up, set out the breakfast things, and had the kettle boiling for tea. I carried the tray up to the parlor, poured the tea, and asked Mrs. Dunn if there was anything else she required.
She said, “I have something to say to you. My cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Angus Bird, need a girl for both outside and indoor work on the farm. They are prepared to give you a trial. I have had a word with Matron at Dr. Barnardo’s Home for Girls. She is expecting a new shipment of girls next week. I have asked her to pick me out a ten-year-old. I feel that you would do better away from the temptations of the city. However, I have given a fair account of you, despite certain incidents. You may stay for another week or two, and help settle in the new girl. She can share your room until you go the farm.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I reminded her, “I’ll be fourteen in September, and am due to receive wages then.”
“That will be a matter for you and my cousin, Mr. Bird, to settle. You may go. I am excessively fatigued.” She rested her head against the chair and closed her eyes.
She thinks I can’t see through her, Helen. She’s too mean to pay me the wages she’s supposed to, when I’m fourteen. She’ll get four years of slavery out of a ten-year-old. Doesn’t Matron understand what she’s up to? As long as we’re fed and don’t cost the Home anything, no one cares. Not once has anyone come to see if I’m doing alright here.
The temptations of the city– did you ever hear such nonsense, Helen? I’m hardly let out of the house, except for Sunday school and errands. But Mrs. Dunn didn’t refuse me a “character,” so I can’t complain. I’ll find my way, I always have. I like the countryside. I expect I can learn to milk cows. I might even prefer them to those greedy chickens.
What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t suit them? Just for once it’d be nice to be asked what I want.
Next morning I was up to my elbows in soapsuds, scrubbing down the pantry shelves. I’d already finished washing and drying the china and glass, and it was ready to put back. Miss Alice was at the table, slicing onions and bits of leftover beef to grind through the mincing machine. She told me to stop what I was doing and go and answer Mrs. Dunn’s bell. I dried my hands, rolled down my sleeves, and hurried upstairs. She hates to be kept waiting.
Mrs. Dunn had a visitor. It was the little girl’s mother. My heart sank–had she told Mrs. Dunn about my letter? And then I thought, why shouldn’t I write to her? No one had bothered to ask me if I wanted to go and work on a farm. So I bobbed a curtsy, and asked, “You rang, ma’am?” And I wished the lady good morning.
She smiled at me and said, “I’ve just been telling Mrs. Dunn how brave you were on Tuesday in rescuing my daughter. I have also explained that our nursemaid is indisposed, in shock, after Elisabeth’s mishap, and will not be returning to Halifax with us. I do not know how I am going to manage my willful little girl on a long train trip without help.
“If you are agreeable to the arrangement, Mrs. Dunn is prepared to release you from your employment here. I hope my little Elisabeth will look up to you as she would to an older sister, and will learn by example to become a dutiful little girl. As we are leaving on Monday, I will send for you on Saturday afternoon so that you and Elisabeth may have a little time to get used to one another, prior to our journey.
“I will provide your uniform, and to start with, your salary will be five dollars per month. You may have a half day off each week, after lunch, and one full day per month. Once your little charge is asleep at night, and you have tidied the nursery and seen to her clothes, you may have the remainder of the evening to yourself. What do you say, Lillie?”
I wanted to fall on my knees and thank her, to tell her it sounded like paradise. Instead, I curtsied again and said quietly, “I would like to accept the position, ma’am, and will do my very best not to disappoint you.”
“I must compliment you on Lillie’s excellent manners, Mrs. Dunn. I am indebted to you.” The lady picked up her gloves and bowed to Mrs. Dunn, who, for once, was all smiles, and told me to see her visitor out.
When I held open the front door for her, she smiled and said, “I think we shall all get on together quite splendidly. Good-bye until Saturday.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You told me I’ve got to aim for something in life. Isn’t this a wonderful start, Helen?
On Saturday morning, I cleaned up my room, closed the trunk, and made the bed ready for the new girl. I hoped she’d talk to my rock doves. I wrapped up a quarter for her, in a note with Good luck written on it, and hid it in her pillowslip, where she would find it when she changed the bedding.
When I went downstairs to say good-bye to Mrs. Dunn, I had to listen to a sermon on the duties of a good servant and watch Miss Alice nod her head in agreement. I managed to hold my tongue until the carriage arrived to fetch me, then I said, “I hope you will excuse my impertinence, Mrs. Dunn, but I have something I wish to say before I leave. You would be doing the new girl a great kindness, ma’am, if you and Miss Alice were to call her by her own name.” And then I walked out, ready to begin my new life.
The Gypsy said I would be looking after a child who was not my own. That part has come true. Will I also meet the fair-haired man who is waiting for me?
If Maria was here, instead of back at the Girls’ Village Home in Essex, how she’d tease me! Just the way she did on the boat for talking to a boy. He had fair hair. I liked him and I wish we’d exchanged names. He called me Flower. I hope he found the kind family they promised us. You never know, we might meet again someday. Anything can happen, Helen. Look at the way my life has changed!
Flower
Tomorrow I visit Miss Macready I want to find out if she talks to the ghost of the sea captain, the way I talk to the girl who whispered her name to me.
Something wakes me up. The room is full of shadows and Lillie emerges from them. She seems different tonight, kind of hesitant, as if she’s here for the first time. She runs her hand over the furniture, touches the jug and basin on the chest, then stands by the window and looks out onto the garden. I say her name softly: “Lillie?” She doesn’t answer. Lillie’s far away, in a dream of her own. I don’t think she can hear me. I hope she’s not feeling sad tonight. She doesn’t stay.
*
The nursing home looks better than it sounds. On the way here, Gran and I had a competition to see who could come up with the worst name we could think of for a seniors’ home. She won with Journey’s End!
The lobby is painted cream and green. There are fake trees, which only look semi-real. An old man shuffles in, hanging on tightly to the rails along the walls. There are pictures of flowers and ships, the kind you see in dentists’ offices. A few old people wander through, mostly using walkers or canes. It’s awfully quiet. I wish I hadn’t come.
Gran asks the efficient-looking young lady at the desk where we can find Miss Macready. She checks her computer and tells us she’s on the roof deck, then points us to the elevator. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. How do I bring Lillie into the conversation? Do I ask if she ever saw her too? I’d better stick to my plan of asking about her childhood. We get off at the fifth floor.
It’s really nice and relaxing up here. Pots of crimson, white, and pink geraniums stand at intervals on the waist-high brick walls. There are five or six round tables, ea
ch shaded by a green-and-white striped umbrella.
A young man wearing a white jacket wheels a trolley from table to table, offering juices, tea, or coffee to the residents, some of whom are playing cards or just napping in the afternoon sun. Gran tells him we’ve come to see Miss Macready, and he takes us over to her. She looks small and frail in her wheelchair, a light blue shawl draped over her shoulders.
“Your visitors are here, Miss Elisabeth, and I’ve brought your apple juice.” He places a nonspill cup in front of her.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Macready I’m Norah Carr. We met when we bought your beautiful house. This is my granddaughter Katie; she’s staying with us on her vacation. Katie sleeps in the room next to your old nursery She’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
I say hello and put the bunch of white and yellow daisies I picked this morning and the bag of cookies on the table in front of her.
The young man says, “I’ll find a vase for your flowers, Miss Elisabeth. They will look nice in your room.” She thanks him, without taking her eyes from my face. Poor Gran might as well be invisible, but when she says she’ll come back for me in half an hour, Miss Macready turns to her for a moment and actually says her name. “Goodbye, Mrs. Carr.”
The minute Gran leaves, Miss Macready says, “I thought she’d never go. I’ve waited such a long time for you.” Weird, she doesn’t even know me.
“You brought me a present–what is it?” I help her open the bag, and tell her I baked my favorite cookies for her. She fumbles for one, takes a small bite, and says, “Not between meals, Bessie.” Her shoulders shake. She’s laughing and I’m afraid she might choke. I look round for the attendant.
The young man notices and comes back. “Do you need anything?” he says. Miss Macready waves him away. He adjusts the umbrella and goes off. I move my chair closer to Miss Macready.