Rare Objects (5 page)

Please God that didn't happen to me.

I jammed my hands into my pockets.

“Ouch!” Something sharp stabbed my palm, and I pulled out a bent safety pin. Another one of Ma's superstitions: “A crooked pin in the pocket brings good luck.”

A minute later I was sitting across from Maude—short and solid, somewhere in her late fifties, a hard smear of red lipstick highlighting her thin lips and thick black glasses framing her eyes. Straight-talking and unflappable, Maude was the first and often only port of call for anyone looking for a truly professional secretary. Or at least that's the way it used to be.

“Jesus, kid!” She took a hard drag on her cigarette and leaned back in her desk chair. “I never thought I'd see you again! What are you doing back?”

“Guess I'm not cut out for the big city after all,” I said.

She nodded sagely. “Not many people are. Though I have to say, you look a bit, well, underfed. And I can't say I like that hairstyle on you.”

“I'll never go to that hair dresser again!” I laughed, automatically running my hand through the short curls. “It'll grow back,” I reassured her. “Faster than you think.”

“Have you been sick or something?”

“No, no, I'm fine. Maybe I was a little homesick.”

“Perhaps you should take it easy. Rest up. Why not come see me in another week?”

It wasn't like her to worry about anyone's health.

“I'm right as rain. So”—I sat forward, gave her a smile full of history and complicity—“what have you got for me?”

Maude flicked a bit of ash into a mug, where it fizzled in the remains of her cold coffee. “Nothing.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I haven't got anything for anyone, kid. Don't you read the papers? The whole country's out of work.”

This wasn't the reception I'd been expecting. Maude always had some lead tucked up her sleeve.

“But, Maude”—I tried to laugh, but it came out forced, like a broken machine gun—“there has to be
something
!”

She picked up a single sheet in her in-tray. “See this? This is it—I've got one job. And about two hundred girls waiting for my phone call. And I'm sorry to say, kid, but you're not what they're looking for.”

“What is it?”

She squinted as she read the heading. “A temporary clerk/salesgirl.”

“But I can do that!” This time my laugh sounded real—full of relief. “I don't care if it's not secretarial. I'm not going to be picky!” I added graciously.

“Yes, but not just any clerk. It says”—she referred to the paper again—“‘The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.'” She peered at me over her glasses. “Allow me to translate: that's ‘No Irish redheads, thanks.' They want a blueblood. Or at least someone who passes for one. It's one of those fancy shops on Charles Hill.”

“Look, I can't go home with nothing, Maude. You don't understand. I've got bills, debts to pay.”

“No, you're right,” she said flatly. “I've never had a bill in my life.”

“What about the telephone company? They always need girls, don't they?”

“Not anymore. They let fifty go last month.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the mug. “I'm sorry, really. I am.”

“What's the address of this shop?”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “No, I'm not taking any chances! I need this commission!”

“I know how to speak properly and which fork to use at dinner!” I had an idea. “You know what? I'll just dye my hair blond!”

“Are you kidding me? And end up looking like every two-bit secretary I already have on the books, all of them trying to be Joan Blondell or Jean Harlow? These people want a young woman of quality, not a chorus girl!”

“Please, Maude!” I was starting to sound desperate. “Just give me one chance. That's all I'm asking.”

She winced; the conversation was painful for both of us. “I've known you a long time, Maeve. And you're a smart girl with a lot of potential. But my God, if you haven't got lousy timing!” A buzzer sounded in the room next door. “Things are tough here. Real tough. Maybe you should've stayed in New York.”

She got up and went into the waiting room to unlock the door.

I grabbed the paper from her in-tray. A card was attached to the bottom. I tore it off and shoved it into my pocket.

It wasn't until I got outside in the street that I took it out again and looked at it.

WINSHAW AND KESSLER

Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art

Under the address were the following lines:

EXTRAORDINARY ITEMS BOUGHT, SOLD, AND OBTAINED UPON REQUEST

Absolute
discretion guaranteed

R. H. Stearns had long been established as the most exclusive department store in Boston. Located in a tall, narrow building overlooking the Common, its hallmark green awnings promised only the finest, most fashionable merchandise inside. Already the windows were dressed with pretty pastel displays of spring fashions in stark contrast to the customers, still bundled in thick winter coats and furs, browsing through the long aisles.

I didn't go in through the polished brass doors, though, but went round to the back of the building. Normally visitors were prohibited from using the staff entrance, but I managed to walk in behind a couple of cleaning girls unnoticed. There was only one person who could help me now, and unfortunately, she wasn't going to like it.

The alterations workshop was a large windowless room in the
basement between the stock rooms and the loading bay, filled with long rows of sewing machines, ironing boards, and clothing rails. The constant clattering of the machines echoing off the cement floor and ceiling made it sound like a factory. Twenty or so women worked side by side, wearing white cotton calico smocks over their street clothes. The department was presided over by Mr. Vye, a very particular, exacting man in his mid-fifties who sat at a desk near the door. He assigned each garment, liaised with the customers, and oversaw the final result. Everything had to go through him, including me.

Ma had a sewing machine at the front of the room in a prime position. It was widely acknowledged that her abilities with difficult materials like silk, taffeta, organza, and brocade were extraordinary, and as a result she was the first choice for eveningwear alterations. Behind her on a dress form was a fitted gown of black velvet with rhinestone straps. When I arrived she was kneeling on the floor, pins in her mouth, taking up the hem.

Mr. Vye scowled at me, an intruder in his domain. “May I help you, young lady?”

“Oh, that's my daughter!” Ma got up, brushed the stray threads from her knees. “You remember my daughter, Maeve, don't you? She's just come back from New York!”

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” I apologized. “Only I wondered if I could have a quick word with my mum.”

He nodded begrudgingly, and we went into the hall.

“I need a favor, Ma.”

“Tell me what happened at the interview. Did they have anything for you?”

“There's not a lot out there, but there is one job. Only I need your help.” I lowered my voice. “Ma, I have to dye my hair.”

“Dye your
hair
?” She recoiled as if I'd just slapped her across the face. “Certainly not! You have beautiful hair! It was bad enough when you cut it. Only fast girls do that sort of thing!”

“But it's for a job, Ma!”

“What kind of job? A cigarette girl?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Absolutely not!”

I would've happily taken a job as a cigarette girl, but I didn't tell her that.

“Look, I don't want to look fast, or cheap,” I explained. “Which is why I came to you. It's for a job in Charles Town. An antiques shop. They want a woman of quality.”

“Really?” Now she was indignant. “And what are you, may I ask?”

I lost my patience. “What do I look like, Mum? Do you think anyone's going to figure me for Irish? Why don't I just go in clutching a harp and dancing a jig?”

“There's no need to be vulgar!” But she frowned and bit her lower lip. We both knew she'd spent years erasing all traces of her Irish brogue for exactly the same reason. But dying one's hair was vulgar and brazen as far as she was concerned. She tried to sidestep the question. “Well, I can't help you tonight. I'm going to mass.”

“We can go to mass any night! And we haven't got time—the interview is first thing tomorrow morning!”

But she dug in her heels. “I'm afraid I have a prior arrangement, Maeve.”

“If you help me, it will turn out all right, I know it will. I won't look cheap or fast. But I can't manage it on my own.
Please!
”

I could feel her wavering between what she thought was respectable and what she knew was necessary.

“Who knows when I'll have another chance?” I begged.

“Maybe.
If
you come to church.” She drove a hard bargain, leveraging my eternal soul against the certain depravity of becoming a blonde. “But I'm warning you, Maeve, this is a terrible,
terrible
mistake!”

Nonetheless, she took me up to the ladies' hair salon on the top floor and introduced me to M. Antoine. M. Antoine was French to his wealthy clients and considerably less Gallic in front of staff like Ma. Originally from Liverpool, he'd apparently acquired the accent along with most of his hairdressing skills on the boat on the way over.

He gave me the once-over from behind an entirely useless gold pince-nez. “It's a shame, really.” He poked a finger through my red curls. “I have clients that would
kill
for this color!”

I avoided my mother's eye. “Yes, but you can see how it limits me, can't you?”

“It's true,” he conceded, “especially in this town. Some people have no imagination.”

M. Antoine sent us home was a little bottle of peroxide wrapped in a brown paper bag, which Ma quickly jammed into her handbag as if it were bootleg gin. “No more than twenty minutes,” he instructed, firmly. “The difference between a beautiful blonde and a circus poodle is all in the timing. And remember to rinse, ladies, rinse! Rinse as if your very lives depended on it!”

The sign above the door read “Winshaw and Kessler Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art” in faded gold lettering. It swung back and forth in the wind, creaking on its chains like an old rocking chair.

I stood huddled in the doorway, waiting.

Maude's voice rang in my head: “The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.”

A blueblood.

I'd looked the word up the night before. The term came from the Spanish, literally translated
sangre azul
, describing the visible veins of the fair-skinned aristocrats. But of course here in Boston we had our own special name for these social and cultural elite, Brahmins—old East Coast families who'd stumbled off the
Mayflower
to teach the English a lesson. There was an even more telling lineage behind that word; it referred to the highest of the four major castes in traditional Indian society. The Boston Brahmins were a club you couldn't join unless you married into it, and they didn't like to mix with anyone who'd floated in on one of the newer ships, landing on Ellis Island rather than Plymouth Rock.

Adjusting my hat in the shop-window reflection, I wondered if it would work. The effect was more dramatic than I'd expected. I looked not just different but like a whole other person; my eyes seemed wider, deeper in color, and my skin went from being white and translucent to a pale ivory beneath my soft golden-blond waves. But would it be enough?

To my mother's credit, she'd been thorough, covering every inch of my scalp in bleach at least three times to make certain there were no telltale signs. And when it was rinsed clean, she wound it into pin curls to be tied tight under a hairnet all night. When I woke, she was already up, sitting by the stove in her dressing gown sewing a Stearn's label into the inside lapel of my coat. “It's one of the only labels people ever notice,” she said. “And a coat from Stearn's is a coat to be proud of.”

“Even though it's not from Stearn's?” I asked.

“They won't know that. They'll look at the name, not the cut.”

For someone who didn't approve of what I was doing, she was dedicated nonetheless.

Now here I was, on a street I'd never even been down before, in my counterfeit coat and curls.

It was almost nine in the morning, and no one was around. In the North End everything was open by seven; there were people to greet, gossip to share, deals to be struck. The streets hummed and buzzed morning till late into the night. But here was the stillness and order of money, of a life that wasn't driven by hustle, sacrifice, and industry. Time was the luxury of another class.