To Dance at the Palais Royale, page 4
“Oh, Mum,” Elsie said, “could she no come and work in our home? I’d like that.” Marion smiled.
“It will be some time, Elsie Ballantyne, before we can afford help at home, my pet.”
“In any case, Elsie, my sister is in Toronto.” Aggie added, “I’m travelling on to there.”
“Oh,” Elsie said. She looked downcast.
“Do you know much about Toronto?” Marion asked.
Aggie shook her head.
“I’ve no idea what Montreal will be like,” Marion said. “Angus works as a clerk in the railway headquarters there. He left Scotland six months ago, just after Robbie was born, to come ahead and find us a place to live. He wrote me twice a week, but you know how men are. He’s never said a word about the city or even what sort of place we’ll be living in. Of course, we’re so glad to be going to him we’d live in a tent if we had to, wouldn’t we Elsie?”
The child nodded, then after a moment said, “A tent made of canvas, Mum, or one of buffalo skins?”
Aggie and Marion laughed.
Just then, a woman in a Red Cross uniform came over.
“I’ll take you and the children to the nursery, ma’am,” she said. “You can rest there ‘til it’s your turn.”
Aggie was sad to see them leave. Suddenly she heard Marion say, “Could I no bring my sister? She’s a great help with the wee ones.” To Aggie’s shock the Red Cross woman looked back at her.
“Well, normally we say only mothers and children. But if she’s your sister, I guess so,” she said.
“Come along then, sis,” Marion said, winking when the woman’s back was turned. Aggie was so astonished she could only follow.
The nursery was just as dingy as the big waiting room.
There were hardly any windows, and the wooden walls were stained a dark colour that seemed to drain the light from the room. A sign high up on the wall said:
Red Cross Juniors
WELCOME YOU
To Canada.
The room was bare except for arrow of white metal cribs, a few low tables and some chairs, but at least they could sit down. After Marion nursed her baby, a woman brought some tea. Aggie helped Elsie find a few battered toys, including a chipped china doll’s cup. Elsie was delighted.
“Now Maggie can have a drop of tea as well,” she cried. “Maggie loves her tea.”
Finally they were called to go through immigration. After all that waiting, Aggie was surprised to find that she had only to show her immigration papers, passport, and vaccination certificate.
“That’s fine,” said the immigration officer, stamping her papers and handing them back. “Wait over there please.” He indicated a crowd of other girls. Aggie recognized some of them from the boat.
“What happens next, please?” she asked.
“You’re off to the station, missy,” the man replied. “Your luggage is already there. Train leaves in about an hour.”
Aggie had expected time to rest. Time to adjust to dry land. This was a surprise. The train station was so close to the pier that everyone walked. Aggie saw nothing of Halifax up close.
Not long after, everyone was ushered into the train. These cars were used for immigrants alone, it seemed. The seats were bare boards. Aggie stood in the doorway while others pushed by her. The car was heated, poorly, by a small, pot-bellied stove. The air smelled of wet wool and disappointment. Suddenly, in her mind, Aggie saw a clean bed that did not move—a bed with little Jen curled up warmly in it. The memory seemed ancient and dim. Her eyes began to sting with tears. She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Marion.
“Come with me, Agnes. We’ve got four seats together.”
Aggie followed her thankfully.
The four seats were in a corner of the car, one of the best spots on the train.
“The conductor saved them for me,” Marion explained.
“This is the railway Angus works for. He wanted us to wait in Halifax a few days. He could get us better tickets then, on a fancy train. What did we write to him, Elsie?” Marion said, turning to the child who had already snuggled beside Aggie.
“That we’d rather walk to Montreal,” the child said stoutly.
Marion laughed.
“Indeed we did. We told him we’d walk if that would get us to him sooner. And so we would. No fancy trains are going to keep us from him a day longer than we’ve already waited.”
“Indeed they will not,” said the child at Aggie’s side. As the train pulled out of the station, Elsie laid her head on Aggie’s lap. Soon she was asleep. The constant rumble of the train, the gentle rocking motion, the warm child’s steady breathing were irresistible. Aggie closed her eyes and slept too.
When Aggie woke, it was already dark outside. The train chugged on into the night, the whistle blowing long and mournfully at every level crossing. The conductor brought food to Marion and her children, and no money changed hands. Marion shared her food with Aggie. Later, everyone settled down to sleep wherever they could. Some of the more adventurous ones even climbed into the overhead luggage racks. Blankets came for Marion and her children, and even a few pillows. Marion did not pretend that Aggie was her sister again, but shared what she was given.
When Aggie opened her eyes in the morning, the train was carrying them through forests of bare, black trees swathed in deep snow. Aggie never imagined that any place could be as big and empty as Canada seemed. Later they passed snowy farmers’ fields that looked like blank, white pages.
Marion talked about everything. When Elsie and Robert were napping, she told Aggie how she met her husband.
“I was working in a shop, a milliner’s, supposed to be learning how to make hats, but I was all thumbs. Angus came in to buy his mother a hat for her birthday.” She showed Aggie a photo of a small, dapper-looking man with a neat mustache and smiling eyes, then carefully returned it to her purse. “A week later, he was back again. A hat for his sister this time. Well, when he came back the third time, I began to wonder if it was really the hats he was after. Angus is not a bold man. He bought four hats before he was brave enough to ask me out. After we were married, I found the last one tucked away in a closet.” Marion smiled, then frowned.
“My father didn’a want me to marry. Not just Angus, but anyone. My mother died, you see, when I was just twelve. But I told him, you’ll no stop me. Angus is the man I mean to marry. So of course he had to change his mind.”
Aggie imagined her father forbidding her to marry someone he disapproved of. Would she be able to do what Marion had done? She didn’t think so.
“Angus is such a good father,” Marion continued, “such a good husband. I’ve missed him these months. I’m tired of sleeping alone.” Then, noticing Aggie’s discomfort she added, “You know, Aggie, it’s lovely to lie with the man you love.” Aggie had never heard anyone talk that way. She blushed to the roots of her hair. Marion only laughed. “Someday you’ll believe me,” she said. Then Elsie woke up.
While Aggie listened to Marion and played with Elsie, the land outside the train went on and on. By late afternoon, the tracks ran along the ice-clogged St. Lawrence River. It was bigger and more grand than any river Aggie had ever seen. They passed small towns and villages now. Aggie was relieved to see that Canada was not quite so empty as it had seemed. Then they stopped across the river from a city built on high cliffs.
“Oh, Mum,” Elsie cried, “look . . . look at the castle! Does a queen live there? Can we visit the queen?”
Aggie looked across the river. There did seem to be a castle. When they asked the conductor, he laughed and said it was a hotel called the Chateau Frontenac, and the city was Quebec City. Late that evening they came to Montreal.
“There’s my Da,” Elsie cried as the train slowed by the platform.
“Well,” said the conductor who was helping them gather their bags, “your father must be pretty special. It isn’t just anyone who gets to meet the trains.”
“My Da is the specialest,” Elsie cried, and she was off with the conductor, forgetting to say goodbye to Aggie in her excitement.
Marion turned to Aggie and kissed her cheek as best she could with the sleeping baby in her arms.
“Safe journey, Agnes,” she said and she was gone.
Suddenly, the train seemed just as dismal as it had when Aggie first boarded in Halifax.
The conductor returned alone.
“Everyone travelling on collect your luggage please,” he said. “We’ll change trains in a few minutes.”
Aggie got her suitcase, then gathered one of the blankets from the seat and hugged it to her. It smelled the way a baby smells, of milk and sweet, new skin. She held the blanket until it was time to change trains.
The new train was just the same—drafty with hard wooden seats. Some time in the night, while Aggie slept fitfully, the train left Quebec and entered Ontario. The next morning when she opened her eyes, Aggie saw what seemed to be a great, grey ocean through the window.
“Is that the sea?” she asked the conductor, and he laughed.
“Not the sea, only Lake Ontario.”
“Is Toronto near then?”
“We’ll be there in no time.”
From the train, Toronto looked poor at first, full of badly made houses on narrow streets. Aggie was beginning to worry when she saw wider streets and a few tall, grey buildings. Finally, the train stopped. The conductor called, “Toronto!” But they seemed to be in the middle of a vast field of tracks, with no station in sight. There must be some mistake, Aggie thought, and she stayed in her seat.
“Toronto, miss,” the conductor said. “You get off here.”
“But where’s the station?” Aggie asked. The man chuckled.
“It’s over there. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a hike. We’ll bring your baggage along presently. They finished the new station last year, but they’re having a bit of trouble deciding who should build a viaduct to get the passengers into it. In the meantime, everyone walks over the tracks. I’m sorry,” he said, and he helped her leave the train.
Aggie made her way across the tracks, dozens of them it seemed, following the crowd. Finally they reached the station. Union Station was the biggest building Aggie had ever seen. Footsteps echoed from the marble floors to high, vaulted ceilings. The place was bathed in the weak winter sunlight that streamed in through high windows. It looked like a cathedral. These people, she thought, must worship trains. But her thought was cut short when someone grabbed her arm. There stood Emma in a new-looking tweed coat and fur-lined boots.
Aggie and Emma had never been as close as sisters might be. But here, alone in this new country, Aggie secretly hoped all that might change, that she and Emma would be friends.
“Well, Aggie, you made the trip alone and you look to be in one piece. You’ve more courage than I gave you credit for.” This was not praise, but a kind of challenge. That was Emma. But at least she knew what to do. Taking her younger sister in tow, Emma spoke to the harried lady from the Travellers’ Aid Society who was rounding up all the young domestics she could find. She was more than happy to entrust Aggie to this smart young girl who knew her way.
And then they were out on the street. Just opposite Union Station, steel girders towered, the framework of a great, new building. High in the air, men walked cross the beams as if they were walking down city streets. It made Aggie dizzy just to watch.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Fancy new hotel,” Emma replied. “They’re calling it the Royal York.”
The frosty air bit Aggie’s nose and her toes soon went numb inside her thin leather shoes. The banks of ice that lined the sidewalks were old and flecked with soot. As they waited for the tram, Emma handed her a ticket.
“For the streetcar,” she explained. Streetcar? Aggie wondered if Emma was teasing.
The streetcar rumbled up. It was smaller than the trams at home. In spite of the winter coating of slush, Aggie saw it was also newer. Like the lovely cathedral station, everything looked new, as if Toronto had been invented the day before Aggie’s arrival. The streetcar was warmer than the train from Halifax. Not until they settled themselves in seats did Aggie think to ask where they were going.
“To the hostel they run for girls like us at College Street. Just until you find a position, and they’ll help you with that. It’s all set up, you see, to make sure we find our way into the kitchens of the well-to-do, and not out on the streets.”
Aggie recognized her father’s bitterness in Emma’s voice. Neither could accept authority or control without resentment, though Emma knew how to hide this when she had to. But to Aggie this system sounded just fine. How else would girls like her ever find their way in this vast city?
The streetcar turned and Emma told her they were now on Yonge Street, one of the main streets of Toronto. Shoe shops, glove shops, china shops, and furriers lined the street. They looked so fine, with fresh paint on the woodwork and gold-edged lettering in the windows. Then the streetcar passed two enormous shops that stood opposite each other, with huge, plate-glass windows and brass revolving doors.
“Eaton’s and Simpson’s,” Emma told her. “The two biggest shops in the city. I’ll take you some day on our half day if you like,” she said. “Remember to take your half day on Thursday, like me. Otherwise, you’ll roam around like some lost lamb.”
Just before they reached College Street, Aggie remembered Flora’s story. She noticed vapour coming up through the grates in the streets. Although the snow was piled in banks on the sidewalks, the streets themselves were dry and clear.
“Emma,” she said, “do they heat the streets?” Emma gave her a look of pure scorn.
“Heat the streets? Are you daft?”
“But steam comes out of the grates . . .” Aggie faltered. “Och, that’s just vapour from the storm sewers. Heat the streets indeed!”
Times change. Places change. But sisters, Aggie reflected, do not.
4
The Stockwoods
The milk wagon passed every morning before six.
Now that the snow had melted, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves always woke Aggie. She was glad, because that gave her time to collect herself before the alarm clock went off. At least there was some light in the sky now. It would certainly be spring in Loughlinter, but here in Canada winter was slow in passing—it was March now and still no sign of warm weather. This room in the Stockwood house had been Aggie’s home for two weeks, an attic room with sloping ceilings and a little diamond-shaped window. Through the window, Aggie could see nearby branches of the great maples that soared far above the roof. The buds were fat and red with life. Maybe spring was on the way.
Emma had offered to find her a position in Rosedale near her own, but, after travelling from Scotland alone, Aggie found she was less willing to be led and dominated by her sister. So Employment Services had sent her here to the Stockwood house for an interview.
Aggie remembered walking in from the streetcar stop that first day. Her thin leather shoes did nothing to protect her feet from the new snow that had fallen. But she almost forgot the cold, looking at the beautiful houses in this neighbourhood called Deer Park. Some of these homes were larger than the finest house in Loughlinter. Finally, she found the address that matched the one Employment Services had given her. The house was large and made of sombre brown brick. The roof was steep and the windows’ were filled with little diamonds of latticed glass that managed to wink even on this overcast morning. On one side of the house, was a glass sunroom. Aggie had walked up the snowy driveway to the back entrance, her feet almost beyond pain. The woman who had answered the door was red-faced, tall, and unsmiling. She gave Aggie a cold, appraising look before opening the door wide enough to let her in.
“I’m Mrs. Bradley,” she said shortly. “Mrs. Stockwood is in the dining room. Wipe your feet well on that mat and wait while I tell her you’re here.”
Aggie was left alone in the big, bright kitchen. She stood because Mrs. Bradley had not invited her to sit. In this warmth, her feet thawed and promptly began to throb as if they were on fire. She looked around to take her mind off the pain. The walls were lined with mint-green cupboards that reached right up to the high ceilings.
Beside a spotless, white enamel sink stood something Aggie had only ever seen in magazines: an electric stove. A loud whirring noise startled her, and she realized that the black and white enamelled cabinet near her must be a refrigerator. Mrs. MacDougall still had an icebox. Aggie’s family had neither.
After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Bradley returned.
“Follow me,” she said.
A swinging door led to the dining room where a small woman in a blue and green print dress sat reading the morning paper and drinking tea from a china cup. Her grey hair was bobbed and waved. Unlike Mrs. Bradley she did smile.
“So, you’re Agnes Maxwell. I’m Mrs. Stockwood. You’re just over from Scotland, Miss Dunlop at Employment Services told me. Is that right?”
Aye, ma’am, that’s correct,” Aggie said.
Mrs. Stockwood’s smile grew wider. She turned to her housekeeper who stood just behind her.
“Oh, isn’t that just the most charming accent, Mrs. Bradley?” she asked. Mrs. Bradley tried, but apparently could not coax her face into any semblance of agreement.
“You have your reference?” Mrs. Stockwood asked. Aggie dug into her purse for Mrs. MacDougall’s letter. The sight of the familiar, spidery handwriting brought a lump to her throat. As Mrs. Stockwood read, Aggie looked around the dining room. A bank of windows filled with those leaded diamonds of glass occupied most of one wall. On a bright day, Aggie guessed, the morning sun would fill this room. Opposite the windows was a white marble fireplace, even now laid with fresh wood and kindling, not an ash in sight. Mrs. Stockwood looked rather lost, sitting alone at the vast dining room table. Now she looked up.
“My, this is excellent. It’s a wonder your former employer let you leave. We have been so anxious to obtain the services of a British maid,” Mrs. Stockwood told Aggie. “Anyone who really cares about quality of service has one now. I’m quite the last among my friends. Can you start today?”
