To Dance at the Palais Royale, page 5
“Miss Dunlop said you could telephone to have my things sent from the hostel,” Aggie told her. “I can start now if you like.”
“Wonderful. I notice from your reference that you didn’t live in.”
“No, ma’am. I always lived at home.” Somehow that last word did not catch in her throat.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy here. You’ll have your half days, Thursdays and Sundays. Your salary is twenty-five dollars a month. Now, we’ll have to order uniforms. Tell Mrs. Bradley your size and she’ll see to that. Mrs. Bradley, show . . . Agnes, is it? . . . show Agnes her room, give her a cup of tea and put her to work.”
“Thank you,” Aggie had said, but when she tried to move, her feet wouldn’t work. What began as a step ended in a limp.
“Goodness,” Mrs. Stockwood said, “have you hurt yourself?”
“It’s just the cold, Mrs. Stockwood,” Aggie said. “It hurts my feet.”
Mrs. Stockwood looked at Aggie’s feet.
“You mean to say no one has provided you with boots?”
Aggie shook her head. She had no money for boots.
None of the secondhand boots at the hostel had fit her. Emma had promised to look for boots, but Aggie hadn’t seen her since.
“You poor child. It’s a wonder you didn’t get frostbite. Mrs. Bradley, aren’t my old boots from last year still in the closet? Remember? You thought you might send them home to your sister’s family.”
Mrs. Bradley nodded. “I meant to, as soon as I could get to the post office,” she said.
Mrs. Stockwood didn’t seem to notice that her housekeeper’s voice tightened around those words. “Well, this will save you the trip. Agnes’s feet look small. I’m sure those boots will do for her.” To Aggie’s surprise, Mrs. Stockwood rose. “Let’s look. Agnes, for heaven’s sake, sit down.”
Astonished, Aggie had sat on the edge of a dining room chair while Mrs. Stockwood and Mrs. Bradley disappeared. A few minutes later, they returned, Mrs. Stockwood waving the boots triumphantly.
“Here they are. Try them on.”
Mrs. Bradley had the look of a dog who just lost a bone.
The boots were heavy black felt with sturdy rubber soles. They fit perfectly.
“There,” Mrs. Stockwood said. “Your feet are the same size as mine. Keep them. Now you may go and settle in.”
Aggie had followed the silent Mrs. Bradley up to the attic. The pain in her feet was beginning to subside. The housekeeper showed Aggie the little attic room and handed her an armload of bedding she had picked up on the way.
“Make your bed and come back to the kitchen. There’s plenty to do.”
She did not mention the boots, but something of her stayed behind after she left, dark and disapproving as a shadow. A small voice inside Aggie told her she should leave now and go back to Employment Services. But she looked down at her shoes, salt stained, cracked, and soaked with melted snow, then at the boots she still held in her hand. Whatever this feeling was, it wasn’t enough to send her out into the snow in those shoes again.
Even the attic in this house was warm. The mattress looked old and lumpy, but the bed stood alone in a quiet room. Aggie had not slept in a room without strangers since she left home almost two weeks before. She had never had a room of her own.
She’d put the boots on the floor, put the bedding on the bed and took the photo of her brothers and sisters out of her purse, propping it against the alarm clock that sat on a wobbly bedside table. Twenty-five dollars is what Emma makes, she thought. The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can send money home. Five dollars should be enough for me. The other twenty I’ll send home.
When Aggie had returned to the kitchen, nothing more was said about a cup of tea.
“It’s been weeks since we’ve had extra help in this house,” Mrs. Bradley said. “There’s plenty to do. I’ll show you the broom closet.” And she did. “Dust mop the upstairs, then I’ll show you the laundry room. There’s plenty of ironing.” She gave Aggie one last look. “I hope you’re honest,” she’d said shortly. “The last girl we had was a liar and a thief.”
Aggie had set to work at once, working as hard as she could. But Mrs. Bradley remained tight-lipped and unapproving.
On her first morning in the Stockwood house, when Aggie came down for breakfast, she’d found a slice of unbuttered toast waiting for her. The smell of bacon had made her mouth water. A slice of toast was not enough for breakfast. Aggie didn’t feel she could ask Mrs. Bradley for butter and she wasn’t bold enough to get it herself. Perhaps, she thought, when Mrs. Bradley leaves the kitchen to serve breakfast, I can dip my toast into the bacon fat on the stove. But Aggie had known that wouldn’t really help. She wouldn’t stay if she couldn’t eat properly, boots or no boots. She was just trying to decide how to get back to Employment Services when Mrs. Stockwood had entered the kitchen.
“Mrs. Bradley,” she said, “I almost forgot about my bridge club this week. Be sure to order extra bread and eggs when you put in the grocery order, and a tin of those shrimp please.”
Then she had glanced at Aggie. “Surely that’s not your breakfast. Don’t you feel well?” she asked.
Aggie didn’t know what to say. Before she could stop herself, her eyes travelled to Mrs. Bradley’s back. Mrs. Stockwood followed her gaze, and Aggie saw she understood. Aggie held her breath.
“Mrs. Bradley, I know how busy you are in the mornings. I’m sure Agnes is able to scramble an egg for herself . . . aren’t you, dear?” Aggie nodded. “Good. I seem to remember a little frying pan Rodney sometimes uses when he cooks for himself.” She opened the cupboard. “Yes, here it is. And the eggs are in the refrigerator. Have one every morning, if you like. Have two.” She was about to leave the kitchen, but turned back. “Oh, Mrs. Bradley, did you order those uniforms?”
“Yes, Mrs. Stockwood, they’ll be delivered this afternoon.”
“Excellent. I’d like Agnes to serve at my bridge club on Friday.” After she left the room, Mrs. Bradley had slammed the frying pan down so hard it made Aggie jump. But nothing was said.
Now, in the chill of the morning, Aggie slipped quickly into one of the uniforms that had arrived that day, a plain black dress. Pulling her thick, fair hair into a knot at the back of her neck, she added a little white headband, worn fashionably low on her forehead. The white aprons that completed her uniform were kept in the kitchen. She glanced quickly around the room to see that everything was tidy. Every morning for the past two weeks Aggie told herself: today I will find a way to prove to Mrs. Bradley I belong here. So far, she knew, she hadn’t.
Mrs. Bradley was already frying bacon when Aggie entered the kitchen. Avoiding her, Aggie took a small bowl from the cupboard and broke an egg into it. As Mrs. Bradley moved away from the stove, Aggie set to work making her own breakfast—the scrambled eggs she had eaten every morning since that first. Chicken eggs—not the little pigeon eggs Aggie had rarely eaten in Scotland. These breakfasts helped because Aggie’s portions at lunch and supper were often far too small. Mrs. Bradley still seemed angry with Aggie. It had to be more than the boots or a few eggs.
The Stockwoods seemed nice though. Mr. Stockwood was a banker who worked in an office on King Street. He was as kindly and cheerful as his wife and even asked Aggie about her family in Scotland. But the Stockwoods were busy people. Aggie knew they seldom gave her a second thought. Her only real friend in the house was the old cat, Duchess. Aggie had never liked cats, but this one was black, tan, and orange with fur as soft as a rabbit’s, deep green eyes, and gentle ways. She would sit and purr and listen to Aggie’s homesick stories of her family and Loughlinter and sometimes try to sit on the paper when Aggie wrote her letters home. In these letters, Aggie pretended she was happy. Her mother had enough to worry about.
At least today was Thursday. Aggie could forget all this and spend the afternoon with Emma and her friends. Mrs. Bradley left the kitchen with the Stockwoods’ breakfast and Aggie sat down to eat. When Mrs. Bradley returned, Aggie was already washing the dishes.
“When you finish those, you can start on young Rodney’s room,” Mrs. Bradley said, stacking dishes beside the sink without looking at her. “Exams at Queen’s will be over in a few weeks, and we’re expecting him home. The missus wants his room out of the way before we start the regular spring cleaning. Rodney gets wheezy if there’s dust. Take down the drapes, then dust and pack all the books. There’s cartons in the basement. The painters will be in on Monday.”
Aggie knew Rodney Stockwood only from the pictures she dusted, one in the main hall and one on the sitting room mantel. Aggie guessed he was a few years older than she was, a thin-faced and serious looking young man with wire-rimmed glasses and hair that was already thinning on top. She knew he was the Stockwoods’ second child and only son. An older daughter lived far to the west in Regina with a husband and two small children of her own. Mrs. Stockwood, and even Mrs. Bradley, always talked of Rodney as if he were made of glass and nothing was too good for him. He was studying at Queen’s University, in a place called Kingston. Aggie had actually passed through there on the train from Halifax, but late at night so she had no impression of the place. From his photos and what she heard, Aggie imagined Rodney would be a dull and somewhat spoiled young man who would expect to have everything just so.
Rodney’s room was, like almost every room in the house, bright and spacious. Aggie worked there all morning. By standing on the cast iron radiator, she managed to get the heavy drapes down alone. Bookshelves lined one whole wall. She dusted the books and packed them into boxes in preparation for the painters, wondering how anyone could possibly read so much. By noon, most of the heavy boxes were stacked in a spare room. After lunch she changed into a dress of her own and left the house without saying goodbye to anyone, happy to leave Mrs. Bradley behind.
Well, almost happy. As she approached the corner of Yonge and Bloor where Emma had arranged to meet, Aggie realized, not for the first time, that she didn’t quite know what to make of Emma’s friends. Like Emma, they all worked in houses in Rosedale. The Stockwoods were wealthy by Aggie’s standards, but the families in Rosedale sounded richer still. Some employed three or even four servants. From talking to Emma’s friends, Aggie realized their lives were much livelier. They even visited back and forth among the houses after work in the evenings. As far as Aggie knew, this was unheard of in Deer Park. Or maybe it was just that Mrs. Bradley would never allow it.
Emma seemed to show up with different girls every week. Aggie had trouble keeping track of them. Millie or Molly, Polly or Penny, Aggie was never really sure who she was talking to. This brief release from the “yes ma’ams” and “no ma’ams” of their working lives made them giddy and reckless for these few hours. To Aggie, they resembled nothing so much as a flock of birds—all chatter and flap.
One recognized Aggie as she approached.
“Eeh, Emma,” she cried, “’ere comes your sis. Now we can get going.” This girl was Millie (or was it Molly?). In any case, her broad accent told Aggie that she was from Liverpool.
Emma greeted Aggie with a smile.
“But we still haven’t decided where to go,” said one small girl Aggie thought might be called Sally.
“I want to go see that new Greta Garbo picture,” Emma said decidedly. “Look,” she pointed to the newspaper in her hand, “The Divine Woman.”
“Greta Garbo, isn’t she swell?” said another girl Aggie didn’t recognize at all.
Sally looked over Em’s shoulder.
“That’s all the way down on King Street,” she said.
“We can take the streetcar.” Sally looked stricken.
“If I spend another seven cents, I won’t have enough to get in to the show.” Everyone looked dejected. No one could spare the extra seven cents for Sally’s fare and no one had an extra ticket either.
Emma glanced at the paper again.
“We can walk,” she said. “There’s time.”
No one tried to argue. It had always been that way.
Leave Emma with other girls and in a few hours everyone would be doing just what she wanted.
The day was grey but not too cold. Aggie was fascinated by Yonge Street. She enjoyed looking in the windows they passed—florists, caterers, shoe shops, everything looked so lovely. Emma took her arm, friendly now that she had her way.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she said. The other girls seemed content to listen.
Aggie wanted to tell Em about Mrs. Bradley. But this was not the time, so she began to talk about the preparations for Rodney Stockwood’s return.
“A university student,” Molly said. “You’ll have to mind yourself with ’im around.” The other girls giggled.
Aggie was mystified.
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. Them young men only ’as one thing on their minds,” Molly said.
“Molly,” Emma said sharply, “dinna frighten her.”
“Forewarned is forearmed, my old mum always said,” Molly continued, ignoring Emma. “A girl’s got to know. You never can tell what might ’appen. Why there was a girl shot ’er employer dead right ’ere in Toronto, only about ten years ago.”
Molly had everyone’s attention now. “What happened to her?” Sally asked.
“Nothing. Let ’er go they did, once she told them ’er story. Seems ’er missus took a trip and the mister started throwing wild parties, trying to have ’is way with ’er. Tried to bribe ’er with ’is own wife’s silk stockings. The girl took ’is gun and shot ’im dead on ’is own doorstep. Nobody blamed ’er. And that’s true.”
Everyone was silent for a minute.
“Well,” Emma said finally, “I’m sure that doesn’a happen every day.”
“More often that we know, I’ll warrant,” Molly replied.
“All these girls who end up walking the streets . . .”
“Molly!” Emma said.
“This isn’t just some fancy of mine, Emma,” Molly insisted. “Your sister’s always lived at ’ome. She’s never had to look out for ’erself before. Well, now she ’as to, ’asn’t she?” She turned to Aggie. “Read the papers if you don’t believe me. Some of them girls started off as domestics, same as us. What’s a girl going to do when ’er employer tries to force ’imself on ’er? How is she to get ’er reference for another job? All downhill from there, I tell you. Is there a bolt on your door?” she asked.
“No,” Aggie said, “just a plain door knob.” She was feeling a bit weak and shaky.
“Well,” Molly said, “I’d get one if I was you, dearie.” No one spoke, but Aggie saw that Emma was flushed with anger. Was this really something to worry about? She wouldn’t be able to ask Emma until they were alone.
Now her sister turned to Sally.
“I can’t wait for the talkies to come to Toronto,” Emma said, pointedly changing the subject.
“Vitaphone,” Sally said. “I read all about it in the papers. Do you think it will last? Pictures with sound? It seems like a good idea.”
“Who can tell?” Emma replied. “Maybe it’s just a fad. But I’d like to see one just the same.”
“Just imagine hearing Valentino play his love scenes,” Sally said and she put her hand up to her forehead in a mock swoon.
“Sally, Valentino died two years ago,” someone said.
“Yes, but I mourn him still,” Sally replied.
“You’re fair daft, Sally,” Emma said, but she smiled. Aggie liked the picture shows. The cinemas in Toronto were done up like palaces with red carpets, chandeliers and gilt on the walls. It was nice to spend an afternoon sitting in a plush seat, watching someone else’s problems.
It wasn’t until much later that night, at bedtime, that Aggie thought back to what Molly had said. Did things like that really happen? Apparently so. She could hear Mr. and Mrs. Stockwood coming up the stairs for the night. Mr. Stockwood was always a gentleman. But what would Rodney be like? Aggie studied her door. Maybe she could prop a chair under the door knob. At home, Aggie thought, I never worried about anything like this.
When the painters left and Rodney’s room was back in order, spring cleaning began in earnest. Aggie’s fancy black uniforms were put aside. She spent most days in a cotton wrapper with an old scarf tied over her hair while the big house was almost torn apart. Light fixtures were taken down and washed, walls washed or freshly papered. Plaster mouldings and the tops of doors were dusted—there was even a special brush for dusting radiators. The electric vacuum cleaner was not good enough for Mrs. Bradley now. Every rug that could be lifted was carried outside, put on the clothesline and beaten with a carpet-beater. On breezy days, the dust blew into Aggie’s eyes. Two whole days were spent just cleaning the glass in the sunroom. Aggie washed all the wooden floors on her hands and knees, then polished them.
As the house looked brighter and cleaner Aggie felt more and more drained, as if the house were taking the energy from her. At night, when she lay in bed, she was so tired she felt as if a weight pressed her body into the mattress. She gave up going downtown on her half days. No one minded. They were all busy with spring cleaning too. Aggie spent Thursday afternoons in her room, curled up with one of Mrs. Stockwood’s old magazines or writing letters home. Duchess would push her way past Aggie’s half-closed door and curl up, purring, at Aggie’s feet, leaving only when she heard birds in the garden outside. Duchess loved to watch birds.
Sometimes, Aggie would catch the old cat up in her arms and cuddle into her soft fur. Once, she tried to pretend it was Jen she was holding. But it took more imagination than Aggie had to turn the old cat into her little sister.
Spring came. The maple trees opened, not with leaves as Aggie expected, but lacy green flowers. The windows of the house were flung wide to receive their sweet scent, and it seemed as if everyone and everything uncurled from a grey winter sleep. Even Aggie felt less tired. Spring cleaning was almost over.
The Stockwood house had a front staircase, broad and curved with a dark mahogany bannister. The stairs were deeply carpeted and the window was bright with three stained-glass panels that showed a dark blue pond, green willows, and a pale blue sky. A single blue-black swallow swooped through the centre panel. Mrs. Stockwood proudly showed these windows to visitors. Aggie understood why; they were beautiful. Sometimes, just for a moment, she would stop cleaning and look at the swallow, its dark wings arched gracefully in mid-flight. The swallow made her think of the marcasite brooch Davy had given her and of Davy himself. I would give anything, she thought, to see Davy slouched against a lamp post at the end of my day now.
