33 The north once more

But even the longest journey ends. In the evening of a bitter, blustery day the train rolled into the grey, familiar station, and there, in the lee of the wind, stood my aunt, in her fur tippet and cap, solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, and scarcely less formidable.

She received us kindly, however, rushed us home, and, when we had washed and changed to clean, though wrinkled, garments, she fed us a sensible, nutritious meal. It can’t be said that joy abounded. None of us had much appetite, though papa did his best to wax enthusiastic over the roast. Fresh meat was the luxury in the south, said he, and thereby precipitated the storm. A nice mess we had made of our lives! Now what in heaven’s name did papa intend to do? Quite likely, he had been too immersed in his dream to read the papers intelligently, and foresee what now had the country tied up in knots! Industrial panic! That’s what it was! Jobs scarce as mercy, and here we were with nothing but the rags on our backs!

Maybe so, said papa, rallying for conscience’ sake. He was sure to find something in the shop that had known him so long as a competent, reliable worker. There was something to be said for skill, you know—to be sure, he’d find something.

From then on, the conversation disposed of us like sheep. We would spend the night here together, but in the morning mamma and the younger children were expected at Uncle Jacob’s. He had a large house now, not far from our old home. Naturally, papa would remain with his sister for the time being. Nothing was said of me. I might have been the Ghost of Christmas Past, for all the part I had in the painful proceedings.

What was to become of me, I wondered, as I peeled off my clothes in a chilly slice of room that gave off the upper hallway. Why hadn’t I spoken up myself, like a sensible being, instead of sitting there with the face of a mummy and the indifference of the dead? Why was it so hard for me to express vital hopes and fears, and so easy to say what was furthest from my earnest thought?

Miserably, I told myself that unquestionably I should have to ask my aunt to solve the riddle for me. Perhaps she had it solved now. Perhaps that was why nothing had been said. She had helped so many strangers, done so much for other nieces not particularly deserving. After all, what I wanted was not so very much. A year in Normal. After that, how simply everything would adjust itself.

Before I went to sleep I had almost convinced myself that such a sensible procedure would appeal to my aunt. It was something of a body blow, therefore, to have her transfix me with a cold glance at breakfast, saying:

‘Well, young woman, you, of course, will go to work.’

Yes, of course, I mumbled, glad of my shell; glad that the sickening disappointment did not show in my empty face. Too occupied with the need to hide my hurt even to wonder why she was so hard. Never suspecting until years later, that papa, doubtless anxious to prove that something had been gained by our southern flight, had told her about Bannister. That I would be married in the summer!

Yet, had I known it, I question whether I should have explained myself. I was too much like mamma, which, no doubt, was something else she held against me. Bless her heart, she had her own fixed, iron pride. But a sensible pride, not the chilling reserve that cannot even bend to lighten its own discomfort.

Somewhile later mamma called me to her room, where she was packing the grips. She handed me two dollars—all the money she had—and her best black skirt. I could make it over for myself at Uncle Jacob’s. It would make me look older, and had a little warmth, besides. The next day I set off job hunting. It seemed to me I trotted endless miles. No one wanted the services of an inexperienced youngster.

By noon I was half frozen, and hungry, and glum as a raven. The Bon-Ton Bakery offered the warmth I needed, and I knew that hundreds of underpaid clerks went there for soup and a bun at the lunch hour. How good it was to slip into the hot little room smelling of fresh bread and teasing spices! How wonderful to see, in the corner towards the back, Laura Johnson, the old, familiar, half-quizzical frown on her pale, high forehead!

‘For heaven’s sake!’ she greeted me. ‘What the dickens has happened? You look awful!’

Just the cold, I told her, and cowardice. I had no talent for netting jobs. Well, I’d get nothing in the stores, she informed me, stirring her soup viciously. Not a darn thing. Every last one of them had cut the staff, whittled the wages, and handed the responsibility of starving clerks to the Lord God Almighty! Fortunately, a few favoured souls still ate ice-cream. That was how she came to be drinking soup and had a bed to sleep in.

‘Gosh, L.G., and we are the smart little girls that had such Big Ideas!’ she finished, glaring at a silver blonde who whisked by our table with a sizzling steak. ‘See that? Now, there’s a wise virgin. But don’t ask me how she buys a sirloin on three-fifty a week—you wouldn’t like the answer! Guess I’ll blow you to a cream puff for the good of our souls.’

Over the cream puffs we tried to push out of mind the spectre of jobs, wintry weather, and virtue. Some of our old crowd had run to luck. Carl had a splendid position, and Arne, whom I had bullied into attending night school, was determined to go in for law. Minnie played the church organ like a wizard, led the choir, and sang better than ever. If she had any sense she’d study singing.

‘But she won’t,’ Laura sniffed. ‘She is too darn satisfied being the shining light in the Lutheran church. That’s another funny thing, L.G., you can kill yourself being satisfied.’

Clarice, another confirmation classmate, was married, which put an end to her fine chatter. Tilly had a job taking care of a couple of old people. Nice change from babies. The lunch hour passed too quickly. I dreaded the thought of the snowy streets and the thankless business before me. Wise with experience, Laura tried to warn me. As we separated, she gripped my arm in the old affectionate manner.

‘See here, I know what you are up against. I know what a romantic fool you are. Oh, don’t I remember the high-flown bunk you spilled over Tilly and me! It’s so much birdseed in the wind, dearie. Not that I ever got the drift of what you wanted, it was so mixed up with Jean Valjean and the Piece of String. Dam fool stuff, used to make me roaring mad when I got home, where ma was grousing, and the house stank of socks drying by the stove. Well, I’m warning you, those fancy thoughts won’t save your shoes. When you reach the stage of cardboard insoles, go to the Employment Bureau. They’ll get you a dear little job, in somebody’s darling house!’

Never! thought I, heading smartly into the wind. Even our leanest days had not prepared me for such an eventuality. I’d rather pick rags and keep my self-respect! Unfortunately for me, I had not been taught to accept poverty as an act of God—as one’s portion, to be borne with humility. Mamma counted her blessings not in terms of meekness and the World-to-Come, but in the strength of inner fortitude, bequeathed by generations of self-respecting people. And self-respect was synonymous with creditable deeds. How often had she intercepted papa, riding the gale of some lofty sentiment:

‘Oh, yes, you talk beautifully! But, to my way of thinking, the ills of the world won’t be mended with tender sighs. I have no stomach for Pauline doctrine!’

Nor had I. ‘Servant, be obedient unto your masters, as unto the Lord your God.’ What a glorious whip that had been in the hands of pious exploiters! I had reached the stage where mamma’s practical wisdom overrode all papa’s idealism. It would be years until I should see any possibility of compromise between such extremes of opinion. At the moment, I could only see that, in any crucial period it was mamma who saved the situation; mamma who exhibited the virtues she thought it beneath dignity to frame in words.

Yet the gist of her teaching summed up briefly. God was not confined to creeds and a book. That was something to remember when confronted by injustice enacted in His name. Right action sprang from a right heart. That was something not to be forgotten when temptation urged you, against the decent instincts bequeathed by your ancestors.

Nice thought, that! Just how, I wondered amusedly, would the decent instincts of dignitaries in ruffs and crosses conspire to solve the problems of a green servant! The humour of it kept me insulated against the cold for a mile or two; kept my benumbed feet marching smartly; stiffened my resolution, as place after place gave me the same answer.

At last, it seemed as though this determined prowling was to be adequately rewarded. I was actually hired, by a fierce-looking little man, whose topsy-turvy establishment was holding a three-day sale. Think of it, I was to be privileged to flit up and down this dim lane of miscellaneous merchandise, where socks and shirts and feather boas dangled from a clothes-line as gay as any pennants of an ancient tourney. I really had a job—if only for three days. The blissful knowledge sent me home on wings. An elation that was ill-founded, however.

I was sacked the next night. Not because I had failed to make the sales. Oh, no, I had done rather well, as a matter of fact. But, in making out my sales slip, I used the dollar sign and decimal point. This affectation I was guileless enough to explain as something learned in school.

‘In school! Abie, she thinks she’s in school!’ roared the irate little man at the cash register.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I tried to explain, which was an even greater error.

‘You should be telling me! Young lady, here we got us cent signs, understand? Cent signs! Maybe you go back to school and learn some more monkey business!’ my indignant employer shouted—and that was that.

Oh well, there would be other sales, I told myself, as I pocketed my dollar-fifty, and faced the dusky street. To-morrow was Sunday, and perhaps I might visit the Rhinertsons and find Tilly there. To-morrow, I could be happy for a few hours, at least. Mamma Rhinertson would be sure to have piles of potato cakes and a fund of gossip with which to regale her visitors. And I had my letters to write to Gordon Bannister.

Sunday was a cheerful day. Tilly had not changed very much despite her longer skirts and piled up hair. She had a better colour, but otherwise was the same, self-effacing, smiling servant, flying about her multiple tasks: whisking the house to rights, setting the table, making coffee, one eye always on the little tots. She liked her work, she said. The old couple were very nice to her, and she had a comfortable room to herself. Best of all, she could save her wages, and one of these days she meant to buy a couple of stuffed chairs, and a Brussels carpet for the front room.

Going home that night I passed our old house, and stopped under the big poplars where I had so often sat reading my books. It was queer, meeting the yellow eyes of the old house this way—the eyes of a stranger, indifferent to my wanderings. I had always hated its ugliness, but now it seemed to me that something inseparable from the strong, stony hills at its back had put its mark on that house. Something that had given me courage, and that I had not sufficiently prized.

I stole down to the creek bed, and listened to the old familiar voice of the water, grumbling to itself under the pearl-grey ice. Suddenly my eyes were wet. I had so loved the little brook. So loved the brown water that rode so boldly over the shoulders of the hills. Now its brave voice reached me through a shroud, unreal as the voice of a dream. That was it! The little brook had all my fondest, fiercest dreams down there, under the cold, grey ice.