To Dance at the Palais Royale, page 3
“Who was taking the collection?” their mother asked.
“Did he no see?”
“Tommy Stuart,” Aggie recalled. “He never took his eyes off Jenny Morrison the whole time.” Jenny was the church organist and Tommy’s feelings for her were well known.
“But how did you hide the money, Jen?” their mother asked.
“I didn’a hide the money,” Jen’s voice broke. “Callum did.”
“During the prayer,” Ewan said. “When everyone’s eyes were closed, Callum hid all the money in his suit pockets.”
The big pockets, Aggie thought, of Dougie’s old suit. “I wanted to tell you, Aggie, honestly I did,” Jen said. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was so ashamed of myself.”
“And that’s why you seemed sick after the service?” Aggie asked.
Jen nodded.
“And then Callum came up to our room. He told me the money was a miracle, landing in my lap so quietly without anyone noticing. He said that God wanted us to have the money so we could buy sweets, because we’re so poor.”
Their mother looked at Callum, who scowled and said nothing. Then she turned to Ewan and James.
“When did you find out?” she asked. Her voice sounded very weary.
“Not until Monday at school,” Ewan said.
“Did you no think to come to me?”
The two older boys looked uncomfortable. “It seemed like telling,” James said at last.
“And no doubt you had your share of sweets,” their mother said. “If Flora was still at school, she might have saved your skins. Now, your Da will have to know.”
Everyone knew what that meant.
When Douglas Maxwell came home from the mines that night he was told. After a painfully quiet supper which no one really ate, the children were ushered into the room again. This time Aggie and her mother stayed in the kitchen. Aggie strained to hear what her father was saying, but the words were lost. Only his tone, angry and hectoring, carried into the kitchen. There was a silence that seemed to last forever, then the sound of her father’s belt hitting flesh and a cry of pain from one of the older boys.
Aggie rose quickly from the table where she had been toying with a cup of tea.
“I’m sorry, Mum, I canna stay.” The words almost choked her as she fled up the stairs to her room. Flora was already there, sitting on her bed in the dark.
“Oh Aggie,” she whispered, “I canna bear it.” Aggie sat on the bed and slipped her arm around her sister’s shoulder.
Little Jen was punished last, and, remembering how she had begged to stay home from church, each cry cut into Aggie’s heart.
That night after Jen was finally settled, Aggie sat on the bed watching her little sister. Even in her sleep, Jen’s small body still shook with sobs from time to time. The welts on her legs were horrible. Finally Jen seemed peaceful but Aggie was too upset to go to bed, so she went downstairs to find her mother. Aggie had assumed that her father would be gone to his pigeons. She would not have left the bedroom if she’d known she would meet him at the bottom of the stairs.
Even in the dim hall, she could see her father redden when he met her.
“You,” he said, “are just as much to blame as the wee ones. Do you want them to grow up to be thieves? I expect you to take them to Mr. Macleod to make their apologies.”
Aggie dropped her eyes and let her father pass. She was shaking when she went into the kitchen. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her mother had overheard.
“Dinna let him frighten you, lass,” she said quietly. “He’s only doing what he thinks best.”
Aggie did not try to speak. Instead she put her head down on the kitchen table and sobbed. Her mother patted her shoulder sympathetically, but Aggie knew that her mother misunderstood. These were not tears of fear, but pure anger and frustration. What he did, Aggie thought, was wrong. It was wrong, and she was too much of a coward to tell him so.
Aggie didn’t miss Emma often, but she did now. If Emma were here she would have talked back. Aggie could see the spark in Emma’s dark eyes, could imagine how she would stand up to their father. But Aggie didn’t have the courage. She never had.
Most of the money from the church collection was already gone—spent on sweets for James and Ewan and Callum and Jen, and, Aggie and her mother discovered, virtually every other child at their school. It pleased Aggie to think they hadn’t been miserly with the money, but she kept that thought to herself. The little money that remained was recovered, and Aggie brought the shame-faced children before the minister to explain themselves. Mr. Macleod was not nearly as angry as Aggie had expected.
“I suppose your father dealt with you?” he asked.
“Aye sir. He gave us a whipping with his belt,” Ewan said.
“I’m pleased to hear that. You’ll remember his lesson, I’m sure. Now, I’m in need of some helpers to mop the church floor each Saturday afternoon for the rest of the winter. That will help you remember not to steal as well.” And that was all.
Aggie knew the whole episode was supposed to be forgotten after that. No one else gave it another thought, not even the children. But she couldn’t get the sound of the children’s cries, or the sight of the red welts on Jen’s legs, out of her mind. In the short time left before she went to Canada, Aggie decided, she would avoid her father whenever she could.
3
To Canada
Now time went by so quickly that Aggie felt like someone on a raft being drawn towards a waterfall, something she saw once at a picture show Davy had taken her to. Soon she would be over that waterfall, out on the ocean with no way back home.
Aggie was to work until the very day before she left.
But Mrs. MacDougall and Ritchie let her do no work that day. Instead she was treated like a guest. At noon they sat with her at the big dining room table, and she shared the scotch broth and roast lamb, the turnip, peas, and potatoes, the tea and cakes prepared for her as if she were a Sunday guest. After the dishes were cleared away, the two old ladies looked at each other with mischief in their eyes. Aggie wondered what was next.
“Let’s just go into the room, hen,” Mrs. MacDougall said, “to sit a wee while.” Aggie always loved this parlour with its dark papered walls, high bookshelves, and over-stuffed furniture. There, on the pump organ, was a big square parcel. After Aggie sat down, Ritchie brought it over to her.
“This is for you, pet. We couldn’a let you leave without some wee thing to remember us by.”
Inside the box was a navy silk dress with a sailor collar, a drop waist, and a pleated skirt. It had white mother of pearl buttons and white satin piping for trim. Aggie knew she could go anywhere in this dress and no one would take her for a servant.
She couldn’t speak.
“Oh, it’s beautiful” she said at last. “I never owned anything so beautiful.” She ran her hand over the soft fabric.
“Try it on for us, dearie. We’d like to see you in it,” Mrs. MacDougall said. A few minutes later, returning from the pantry where she’d slipped the dress on, Aggie caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. Why, I’m almost pretty! she thought before she could tell herself not to be vain. But Mrs. MacDougall and Ritchie were extravagant in their praise.
“There,” Ritchie exclaimed, “did I no tell you it would fit? She looks like a young princess.”
“Aye, Ritchie, I didn’a believe anyone could be so slim, but she is. Agnes, my child, you look beautiful. You’ll have no trouble finding a husband in Canada,” she joked. Aggie blushed.
As Aggie left Mrs. MacDougall’s house that evening, the two old ladies fought back their tears, making her promise to write. She half dreaded, half hoped that Davy would be under the lamp across the street as usual. But the darkening street was empty.
Feeling empty as the street, Aggie started home alone in a light rain, carrying the box with the dress under her arm. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t fair to expect Davy, that she had no right to feel so disappointed. But that didn’t change the way she felt. She was more than halfway home when she heard footsteps ringing in the street behind her. It was Davy, breathless from running.
“I couldn’a let you leave without saying goodbye, Aggie,” he managed to gasp. One look at his cheerful, handsome face was all Aggie needed. The parcel fell to the ground, and she threw herself onto the damp roughness of Davy’s jacket.
“Oh Davy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said and she began to cry. But if anyone had asked her what she was sorry for she couldn’t have said.
Davy stroked her hair and let her cry.
“Whist you, Aggie,” he said finally. “It’s no the end of the world,” and he gave her his handkerchief. “I’ve something for you to remember me by,” he said, “and because it’s your birthday tomorrow.” Reaching into his coat pocket he brought out a small velvet box.
The brooch inside was fashioned into the graceful shape of a silver swallow, set with dozens of tiny, silvery-black stones. It flashed, even in this fading light. Aggie knew the stones were marcasite. Rich women didn’t wear marcasite, they wore jewels. Even so, the pin was more than Davy could afford. It was the first piece of jewellery Aggie had ever owned. She looked at him with new teats in her eyes.
“No tears now, Aggie. Let me remember you as my strong and cheerful lass.”
“Thank you, Davy, it’s beautiful.”
“It reminded me of you,” he said, and he kissed her on the forehead. It was the only time he ever kissed her.
From then on, it was so difficult to accept what was happening that Aggie felt she was watching herself from a great distance. The figure that went through the motions of eating that last meal with her family, of lying in her bed awake for most of the night, of rising early to say goodbye to her mother in the dark before dawn, might have been a puppet or an actress in the picture shows. Her heart seemed to have turned into something cold and heavy that could not really feel.
In the morning, Aggie was glad to leave before first light. At least she wouldn’t have to face the young ones again. Jen had clung to her the night before and cried herself to sleep. Now Aggie choked down the breakfast her mother insisted she eat. Then it was time to go. Just before Aggie left, her mother handed her a small brown envelope.
“We wanted you to have this, Aggie. There’s one for Emma too.” Inside were two postcard-sized photographs of her younger brothers and sisters. They stared straight at the camera, solemn and still, looking nothing like themselves.
Aggie couldn’t imagine where her mother had found the money.
“Thank you, Mum,” she said, slipping the photos back into their envelope. “I’ll take good care of them.” As they hugged goodbye, Aggie realized how thin her mother was beneath her faded cotton dress.
Then it was just Aggie and her father. One of his friends had borrowed a car to take them to the docks in Glasgow, an hour’s drive. Aggie still could not forgive her father for beating the little ones. She climbed into the back seat without speaking, leaving him to sit in front with his chum.
“Well, Agnes, off on your big adventure?” her father’s friend asked with a grin as soon as they were on the road.
“Aye, Mr. Munro,” Aggie said. And that was all. She did not want to be drawn into a conversation that would include her father. From the front seat, her father turned and gave her a sharp look. Aggie looked away. The two men fell easily into a conversation about the mines.
Leaving Loughlinter on this road, they passed the cemetery where Dougie was buried. Aggie suddenly realized she’d almost forgotten her brother in the past few days. Now she was leaving and she hadn’t even visited his grave. The black iron fence of the cemetery was passing quickly. Could she ask the men to stop? No, there wasn’t time. In any case, she was afraid her father would think she was daft, wasting Mr. Munro’s time. Then the cemetery was gone. Goodbye, Dougie, she thought, goodbye. She was glad the men were absorbed in their conversation. Neither of them noticed when she slipped her handkerchief out of her purse and quickly wiped her eyes.
Aggie had never been on such a long ride before, but the fields and villages were mostly hidden in a grey winter drizzle. When they finally reached Glasgow, tall buildings crowded along both sides of the streets. The ship, when they came to the quay, was large and black, alive with sailors and passengers, bright with lights in the mist. There was hardly any time left.
Douglas Maxwell was not a man who put great store in words, but now he spoke.
“Aggie, I know how hard this is for you, lass. I want you to know that your mother and I . . .” he began, but Aggie would not raise her eyes and his voice trailed off. Still, Aggie did not look up. “Well, we thank you, lass, for doing this,” Douglas Maxwell said quickly. “I dinna blame you for being angry. God go with you.” He turned and was gone.
She wanted to cry out then, “Wait, Da!” She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t angry about going to Canada, that she was glad to be able to help. But he had already disappeared into the noise and confusion and piles of cargo. He had to get back, Aggie knew. Time was money. She mounted the gangplank alone and found her cabin, deep in the hold of the ship. Then she stood on the deck and watched as the ship lurched out of its moorings.
Somewhere on deck, a young woman began to sing.
Her voice carried, high and thin over the cool morning air as she sang,
So fair thee well, my own true love,
So deep in love am I,
That I will come again, my dear
Though t’were ten thousand miles.
Aggie knew the song. It was “My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose” by Robbie Burns, the great poet. And she knew the singer was promising to return. Would Aggie ever return? No, she couldn’t imagine she would. My heart stays here, Aggie thought. I’m being torn in two. The harbour disappeared from sight as the boat sailed down the River Clyde to the sea.
Aggie had hoped that travelling by ship would be something like the seaside holidays other girls sometimes took—no work and fresh, salt air. She wasn’t prepared for the oily smell and constant noise of the ship’s engine. Was it that or the roll of the sea that made her so ill? Maybe neither. But seasickness gave her a good excuse to lie on her bunk and cry, and that was all she wanted to do.
The three other girls who shared the cramped cabin were strangers, on their way to Canada to work as domestics too. One had come aboard when the ship stopped in Londonderry, Ireland, one day out of Glasgow. Determined to make the most of this short holiday, they had little time for Agnes. Even the matron, whose job it was to care for young girls travelling to Canada alone, simply looked in on Aggie once and said, “You’ll live.” Aggie gave up eating and survived on water. She was wretchedly miserable, the seasickness and homesickness blended together so that she could not tell where one ended and the other began.
Then, late one afternoon, Inid, the Irish girl, said, “You can see land now. Not Canada, but Newfoundland. We’ll be in Halifax in another day or two.” Aggie pulled herself out of her bunk, longing to see land. She made her way to the deck on rubbery legs. Not too far away she could see high, rocky cliffs. Could anyone live there? she wondered. Then, as night fell, she saw lights that must have been coming from little villages, strung along the coastline like a few bright beads on a necklace.
Somehow that helped. She went back to her bunk and slept soundly. Towards morning, she dreamed that she and Dougie were standing on the deck of the ship as it sailed into a harbour. In the dream, Aggie felt they were coming home. The next day, the sea grew calmer. Aggie felt better and was finally able to eat. But the other girls had formed their groups. It was too late to make friends.
They sailed into Halifax the next day on a cold, grey dawn. The size of the harbour amazed Aggie and the houses stacked up on the hills all looked new. The sun came up, the morning fog lifted, and the fresh snow turned an unbelievable, fairy-tale pink against the bright, blue water. The world was not old and grey as it had been in Scotland, but fresh and new. For the first time since she’d left her mother, Aggie felt her heart lift.
Then everyone was herded off the boat and made to wait in long lines to clear immigration, like cattle at a marketplace. Aggie still felt the roll of the sea under her feet. She had to lean against something; otherwise she was afraid she’d lose her footing. In line ahead of her, a young woman was struggling to keep her small daughter and baby quiet. Thinking of her brothers and sisters, Aggie reached down and lifted the little girl onto the wooden railing.
“Hullo,” she said. “I’m Aggie. Who are you?”
“I’m Elsie,” said the child, “and this is Maggie.” She held up an old knitted doll. She pointed to the baby, “That’s our Robert, and my Mum. We’re going to Canada to our Da.”
The tired-looking young woman smiled at Aggie.
“I told her this is Canada, but she wouldn’a believe me because her father isn’a here. He’s in Montreal.”
“He said he’d meet us in Canada,” the child said solemnly. She was, Aggie guessed, about four. Small for her age and serious like Jen.
“Well, Elsie, I’m sure he will. Would you like a sweet?”
Aggie found a mint in her purse, the last of Jen’s ill-gotten candy, given to Aggie as a going away present when no one was looking. Elsie opened her mouth like a baby bird and Aggie popped it in.
“My, this line is long and slow,” the child’s mother said.
“I imagine we’ll be here all day. I’m Marion . . . Marion Ballantyne.” She was small and pretty and her blond hair was bobbed fashionably short.
“Agnes Maxwell,” Aggie said. Suddenly she realized how little she knew about meeting people. Surely she ought to say something more, but what?
“Are you coming to Canada to meet your Pa too?” Elsie asked.
Aggie laughed.
“No, Elsie, my Pa is at home in Scotland. I’m coming to Canada to see my sister Emma, and to work as a servant in someone’s home.”
