Authors: Irene N.Watts
Flower (7 page)
Matron says, “Mrs. Dunn, this is Lillian Bridges.
Mrs. Dunn is the proprietress of a boarding house on Water Street.”
I bob a curtsy and say, “Good morning, ma’am. It’s Lillie, please, Matron.” Miss Mackay silences me with a look, and Matron ignores my interruption, as if I’m an insect that’s buzzed in by mistake.
“The girl has been with Barnardo’s since the age of seven, and is thoroughly trained in domestic duties. She will be twelve in September, therefore she is required to complete two more years of school.” I keep my eyes lowered.
When I first went to Barnardo’s, they asked me how old I was. Well, I knew that, but I had no idea exactly
when
I’d turned seven. I remembered the day you took me out, Helen, and gave me a present because you said it was my birthday. The leaves on the trees were beginning to change color–crimson and gold–all along the Thames’ embankment, but what day was that? Mrs. Riley lived at number four, so when they asked me the date of my birthday, I said September 4th, and that’s what they wrote down.
Mrs. Dunn makes up her mind in a hurry, Helen. She stands up and shakes out her skirts. “I’ll take her. The buggy’s waiting outside.”
I smile at her, even though I feel like a piece of goods that’s just been purchased. “Thank you, ma’am,” I say.
Matron tells me to fetch my cloak and that she’ll have my trunk brought down.
When we settle into the buggy, Mrs. Dunn speaks rapidly to me: “My sister, Miss Alice Phipps, cooks for our establishment, and you will assist her in the kitchen, as well as serving at table and cleaning the boarders’ rooms and the rest of the house. At present we have five permanent guests. There is a kitchen garden, which you will help tend, and we keep poultry, so there are always fresh eggs. You will be in charge of feeding the chickens, cleaning the henhouse, and collecting and washing the eggs. The
Almanac
says eggs must always be collected in daylight hours. A woman comes in on Mondays for the heavy wash. You will help her with the mangling, and do the ironing. I presume you are able to patch and darn?”
I manage to nod, hoping there wouldn’t be too much mending. “I try my best, ma’am.”
“Where are you from? You look very dark.”
“I’m from London, ma’am. My mother told me my father came from Malta and I take after him. I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”
“And what did your mother do–stay at home and look after the household?”
“Yes, ma’am, she took care of the house.” That isn’t a lie; that’s what a servant does.
Why is she asking all these questions? We’re orphans, we lived in the orphanage–there’s nothing more to tell.
She starts talking again.
Doesn’t she ever stop?
“The most important thing a girl in domestic service possesses is her good name. Her character must be unblemished. I expect obedience without question, cleanliness in habits, and, above all, hard work. You will take the next few months to become accustomed to our ways, and in the fall you may go to school if you are still in my employ. On Sundays you will attend St. John’s Anglican Church and Sunday school. St. John’s is the oldest church in Peterborough–we are fortunate that we live close by.”
The buggy stops in front of a pale yellow brick house with high narrow windows. I climb out after Mrs. Dunn, and she motions me to follow the driver, who carries my trunk to the rear of the house. “I will see you in the kitchen in a few moments,” Mrs. Dunn says, and walks up the steps to her front door.
If I’m still in her employ, she said. I’m to be a skivvy! Why did they tell us we were going to be part of a family? Was it all lies to make room for more orphans in the home?
If you were standing beside me, Helen, what would you say? I know … roll up my sleeves, get to work, and do the best I can. I will, Helen, and I’ll make you proud of me. You’ll see.
T
he three of us start working on the top floor today. Grandfather’s whitewashing
The Attic
, and Gran and I strip off the final layer of the nursery wallpaper. Dad called from England just after breakfast. Said Step sends her love to everyone.
I tug viciously at a piece of wallpaper that sticks stubbornly to the wall. I’m stubborn, too. I manage to peel it off, and begin on the next strip.
Gran says, “I remember, when you were small, I made you take a nap in the afternoon. You were not at all pleased. ‘I don’t take naps anymore,’ you said. ‘I have quiet times.’ When I came back about half an hour later, you’d managed to pick off a corner strip of your new bedroom wallpaper. ‘It came loose,’ you told me, and you tried to put it back with spit.”
“I’d forgotten all about that.” I tear another long strip and watch it curl up like apple peel in one unbroken spiral.
“I must have made a lot of mistakes, Katie. It was a difficult time.”
“I must have been a horrible kid.” I really don’t want to get talking about after Mom died. “Gran, I’d like to go and see Miss Macready. She must be pretty ancient by now. I want to ask her about living here as a child, the kind of stuff that might help me with the play. You know, how kids were brought up, what they played, did she garden? Did she have a nanny or a maid?”
Deep down I’m still wondering about that shadow on the wall. I haven’t really convinced myself it was ivy.
Can moonlight make a bunch of leaves turn into the shape of a girl holding a flower?
And that weird mixed-up dream I had last night, I wish I could remember more.
Why do dreams always disappear the minute you wake up?
It’s no good discussing it with Gran–she’d fuss and think I was scared or homesick, and move me downstairs. I love my Secret Garden room, but there is something mysterious going on. Suppose, long ago, someone was unhappy or in trouble. Miss Macready might know if there was a secret. Kids always find things out.
Gran says, “Miss Elisabeth Macready must be at least ninety-six years old. She was a small child when her
parents moved here in 1909. That’s certainly the era of
The Secret Garden.
Why don’t I give the Bide Awhile Nursing Home a call, and check about visiting hours?”
“Bide Awhile? What a creepy name for a seniors’ home. That’s like saying, ‘You won’t be here for long.’ What our principal would refer to as ‘sending the wrong message.’”
“I don’t think that was the intention! I’ll get cleaned up and make that call.”
Grandfather and I go for a walk down to the harbor after lunch. Gran stays behind to carry on with the sampler she’s stitching for the library:
Home Sweet Home
, the exact opposite of how I feel about mine right now.
We buy vanilla and chocolate ice-cream cones and eat them sitting on the boardwalk. I have to shoo away the gluttonous seagulls circling over our heads.
“I dreamt about the girl on the ship last night, the one in your father’s story. Did they ever meet again? I hope so. Tell me everything that happened after they got to Canada.”
“Dad told me more than I ever expected to hear him say that day, but there were some things he kept to himself. From what I’ve read about the Home children, they got on with their lives and didn’t talk much about the past. They weren’t all orphans–some were sent away
without their parents’ consent; some had parents who were destitute, or who didn’t want them; some were runaways living on the streets of cities like Liverpool and Manchester and London, who were picked up by the authorities and sent overseas. Many children were overworked and underfed. I’m sure some wished they’d stayed in England.
“Dad said that when they finally set foot on Canadian soil, not very far from where we’re sitting now, Katie, they passed through the immigration sheds. A few of the boys were met by farmers and driven off clinging to the sides of carts or buggies, heading into the unknown, while the rest climbed on board the train bound for Toronto and to points west. The girls were on the same train, but traveled in separate carriages. My father said:
“‘I hoped I might catch a glimpse of the girl I’d talked to on the ship. I turned and waved, in case she was looking out of the train window. I wished I’d asked her name, and told her mine. The boy behind elbowed me to hurry up the steps. “Who are you waving at, you daft fool?” he jeered. I put my foot out to trip him.
“‘ “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said.
“‘When we finally arrived in Toronto, we were taken to the Barnardo Home for Boys on
Farley Avenue. The minute we were through the doors, they checked us again for lice and disease.
“‘The one disease we all shared was fear. We’d come such a long way, and now we waited for one more destination, waited for what they’d promised us: a family to take us in. Was it going to come true? We’d already heard rumors of boys running away because they’d been badly treated. That night, lying awake in the dormitory, I could hear the sound of muffled weeping.
“‘Next morning Mr. Owen, the superintendent, told me I was going to a farm in Lindsay. He wrote down the address:
Jack Mitchell, Angeline, Lindsay, Ontario.
I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name! I was given a lunch and sent on my way.
“‘I sat up on the train, rigid with anxiety, terrified I’d miss my stop. I was hardly able to take in the pretty countryside, dotted with lakes and rivers. I needn’t have worried. The guard called out, “Lindsay,” in a loud voice, and moments later I was standing beside my new tin trunk, on a platform bustling with life. Trains came and went, and people jostled to greet new arrivals, to pass the time of day, or to find their seats before the next departure. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. It was the first time in years I hadn’t
been part of a crowd of boys, herded from one place to another, obeying rules and regulations. I was on my own, bewildered and uncertain.
“‘How would Mr. Mitchell know me? I’d been told I was to be met, but suppose he forgot–how would I get to the farm? I made sure the name tag pinned to my jacket was facing out. Then I hauled my belongings to the steps beside the station entrance, so anyone going in or out would notice me.
“‘Once or twice people looked my way, but no one stopped to speak. The cold seeped through my boots. I must have waited two hours or more. At last a burly man, whom I’d noticed tying up his horse and buggy and who’d come down the steps to speak to the stationmaster, walked up to me. I jumped to my feet, and whipped off my cap, “Mr. Mitchell, sir? I’m William Carr, your boy from the orphanage.”
“‘“My boy?” He laughed, mocking me. “I don’t have a boy, only a houseful of girls.” He laughed again, enjoying his little joke. Then he walked all around me. If he’d carried a pitchfork, I swear he would have prodded me with it.
“‘“I’ve changed my mind. You’re too small. My pigs weigh twice what I do and they’d gobble you up in no time.” He roared with laughter at
the prospect. “I’ve had a word with the station-master–you can go back on the next train.”
“‘“Please, sir, I’m strong, and pigs don’t scare me.” I hoped Mr. Mitchell wouldn’t guess that the nearest I’d ever been to a pig was the rare occasion I’d tasted a pork sausage, or looked at a pig’s head on a slab in the window of a butcher’s shop in London. But to be sent back would be a disgrace.
“‘“My nephew’s been sent for from out West. The wife decided she doesn’t want anyone who isn’t kin around the place.” Then he turned his back on me and walked away.
“‘It had all been a game. He’d made up his mind long before he even spoke to me.
“‘I tore off my name tag and shoved it in my pocket. I swore I’d never go back to the orphanage. They’d sent me to Canada for a better life, and I was resolved to find it.
“‘I asked the stationmaster if he’d let me leave my trunk in the baggage room while I looked around the town, and he said that would be fine.
“‘Outside the station, porters were handing luggage up the steps of a high-wheeled horse-drawn bus, with
BENSON’S HOTEL
written on the side. I watched the horses struggling to turn
into the muddy main street. Horses! Surely there would be a job in some stable for a boy who wanted to work with horses. I set off to find myself a place.
“‘I walked down Kent Street, and in the next couple of hours I’d called in at six or seven livery stables attached to the hotels. None of them needed a stable boy. At Hamilton’s Carriage-works, a boy cleaning some harnesses told me to try the forge behind Queen’s Square. He’d heard the apprentice had gone back to his home in Bobcaygeon. I crossed the wide muddy street. The mud slopped up to my ankles and over my boots.
“‘The smith was shoeing a horse. I stood at the entrance feeling the heat of the fire and watching the sparks fly into the dusk, like fireflies on a summer night. The blacksmith cradled the horse’s front foot in his lap, starting with the heel of the shoe, loosening it gently before he removed the old nails with his pincers. Then he cleaned out the mud and gravel before fitting the new shoe. When he picked up the hind foot, the horse shifted about. Horses do that because they can’t see what’s going on. The blacksmith talked to him quietly, slid his hand down the horse’s leg to the fetlock, picked up the foot and swung his
knee under the horse, holding the upturned hoof in his lap ready to shoe. The smith had positioned himself so that even if the horse did kick, he could step away without getting hurt.
“‘When the horse was shod, the blacksmith straightened up. He watched the owner lead the mare away and looked at me, waiting patiently to see what I wanted. I had a feeling that I had found what I was looking for. This might be my only opportunity to speak up for myself, and my future in the New World.
“‘ “My father worked with horses, and so did my grandfather,” I blurted. I hadn’t planned what I was going to say, but it all came pouring out: about the orphanage and leaving Frankie behind and being turned down by Mr. Mitchell and how this was the life I’d always wanted – to work around horses and one day to be a blacksmith like him.
“‘He handed me a broom. I swept that forge as if my life were at stake, and in a way it was. I gathered the old horseshoes, adding them to a barrel already filled with other discarded shoes. I picked up bent nails, found some wood to chop, and stacked it near the furnace. When the forge was tidy, I stood the broom back in the corner.
“You must keep that fire going, morning and night. Make sure it never goes out,” he said.
“‘Yes, sir, I won’t. I promise.”
“‘The blacksmith struck the anvil with his big hammer so that it rang out like a bell–the sign that work was ended for the day. He shifted the hammer to his left hand, and held out his right for me to shake.
“I’m Joseph Armstrong,” he said.
“‘ “My name is William Carr,” I answered.
“‘Then he took me into the house for supper, and that’s how my five-year apprenticeship began. We worked twelve- or fourteen-hour days for six, sometimes seven, days a week. We fixed wagon wheels and cutting knives, made bolts and hinges, forged ax handles, and mended sled runners. Mr. Armstrong made his own nails because they lasted longer than the ones turned out by machines. But over half the work we did was shoeing.
“‘A couple of months after I’d started working for Mr. Armstrong, Jack Mitchell brought his horse in to be shod. He looked at me, and said, “It’s you, is it? I heard Mr. Armstrong took you on. How’s the Home boy making out here? Giving you any trouble, Joe?”
“‘“I’ll need you to walk the horse round, William, so I can see what’s required,” Mr.
Armstrong told me. When he’d taken a good look at the horse, and I had brought him back into the forge, Mr. Armstrong said, “My new apprentice will shoe your horse, Jack.” Then he added, “The boy has good hands.” I must have grown at least half an inch taller when I heard that. Compliments were rare in my life.
“‘It took me two hours to shoe the horse–a job Mr. Armstrong would have finished in half the time–but he never said a word, just grunted now and then to encourage me.
“‘Bit by bit I became part of the rhythm of the forge. Mr. Armstrong taught not through words–there were few of those–but through example. By the time I was a striker, the second pair of hands at the anvil, we worked as one and the same person. I rarely missed when he pointed with his hammer to where I was to strike next.
“‘At first I was given the worst jobs–that was how you learned. Apprentices were expected to handle the kickers, the nervous bad-tempered horses who kicked out when they were shod. Mr. Armstrong told me I had a way of talking to them that calmed them down, that I had the right way with troublesome animals. “A horse is like a human; he needs kindness,” he said.
“‘When I was fourteen, I was paid my first wage of a dollar a month. I’ve never felt richer in my life. I banked most of it. I was too busy to spend it, except when the circus came to town. Everyone turned out for it: the procession headed by the elephants and the show afterwards. But I was always glad to get back to the forge. It made me feel uneasy looking at the mangy wild animals in their cramped cages.
“‘I remembered the girl on the boat, the way she’d gripped the rails. Sometimes I’d look up when I saw a girl with dark curls pass by, or heard a laugh that reminded me of her.
“‘I stayed with Joe and his wife until 1914, the year after my apprenticeship ended. In September, a month after World War I broke out, I went to the armory on Queen Square and volunteered for the army, hoping to be sent to a cavalry regiment. “Come back safe, Will,” Joe said.
“‘We embarked for England, where we were to receive training before they sent us to France. I was anxious to see my brother again. I managed to have one leave with him. Frankie joined up the following year. I never saw him again; he died in France, at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in 1917. After the war, I returned to Canada and married your mother.’