37 The working world

Kugler’s would not take me for another month, but I put in six weeks working for a jovial Norwegian woman who ran the Lakeside pavilion and dance-hall. The season was not started, although there was plenty to do; but, as Mrs. Gunderson was as amiable as she was frankly fat, the work was a pleasure.

It was fun, watching the rolling gait of her walk, and the agility of her huge, red arms beating up immense cake batters. Always fond of cooking, the family dinner fell to my lot, and that was a nice change from sliding about with a duster.

An occasional dance stepped up the trade, and added to interest. It amused me to watch the proletariat having a fling at fifty cents a couple.

The following month mamma moved into a tiny little house, far back in the hills: three small rooms, with a wide, secluded meadow for a yard. Not much, yet how glad we were to be under a roof of our own! So now I had a bed at home, and, shortly thereafter, was busily serving the dear public with ice-cream sodas, sundaes, and what-not. It was wonderful, feeling free! Wonderful, working with Laura! Wonderful, being roared at by a fussy Greek, who never meant a single word of his angry abuse.

A new sort of life unrolled itself before me. A sort of pageant of gay pretence: little stenographers playing at being ladies, flirted bravely over mounds of sickly stuff; frizzled sales girls stomped in with the boy friends after the show; middle-aged housewives eased themselves from shopping, and placated their cranky youngsters with five-cent blobs of vanilla. Not infrequently, some sour-looking gentleman crept in on his way to work to ask Tony for something to settle a rampaging stomach.

There were acres of offices over our heads, and some of the medical men had a habit of dropping in for Coco-Cola and a bit of badinage with us girls. One incorrigible old duffer, whom I had met at my aunt’s hospital, delighted to plague me by hauling on his rubber gloves when his glass was drained:

‘So now to visit my gallant ladies,’ he would twinkle. Said gallant ladies being housed on the waterfront behind us.

There was a young dentist who always raised our temperatures, a really beautiful creature: dean-limbed, shapely suave, with not a care in the world, that we could imagine. He was always fascinatingly gay, and almost broke our hearts when he popped along with some pretty girl in fine feathers. And then, one morning, there was a shot—a terrible sound that ripped the air, for a moment, leaving a dreadful silence. Our handsome doctor had killed himself. He had no debts, no unhappy love entanglements, no threatened ailment. He just thought the show too trivial. On his tidy desk lay a scrap of note:

‘The game isn’t worth the candle.’

Laura wept amid the ice-cream cans in the storeroom, and I suffered something very near panic. I understood too well the queer despair that had lain behind those easy smiles, and I did not want to see so clearly.

‘My God!’ Laura kept moaning, ‘my God, fancy killing yourself, with so much to live for!’

Tony slapped our backs with a broad paw, and uncorked a bottle of pop.

‘Musta been nuts, poor nut!’ quoth he.

Threading my way into the hills that night, I wondered. I sat down by the old brook, singing to itself so contentedly, and thought: now he had the answer; or the tale was told; and, in either case, life went on as before. Some one else would do his work, some one without that hunger for an inner satisfaction compatible with intelligence and reason. Some allegedly normal young man, who could thrill to a bank account, embrace heaven in the Ten Commandments, and be perfectly content with a world that met his own physical needs.

***

The weeks straggled away uneventfully, except that, now, I could patronize the library in my free hours. There were no amusements; anything of that nature within my means would have bored me to tears, so I stuck to my books. I had always loved history, and now I could scamper over the bleaching bones of the past to my heart’s content. It kept me from worrying too much about unco-operative nickels and dimes, and the shadow of the winter coat I should have to buy eventually.

Racing about in the store, and reading myself silly, kept me blind to Laura’s increasing fatigue, though now and then I used to scold her for eating nothing. Nonsense! She ate heaps of ice-cream. Every one knew that ice-cream had lots of nourishment.

Then, one day, she came prancing in with a little brown fur slung from her shoulders. Heaven knows how many dinners it cost. And then she found a suit and a smart pair of shoes.

Finally, a young man, quite a nice-mannered chap, a bookkeeper somewhere—attached himself; and so I gave up worrying about the pinched look and the dark rings under her eyes. She had her beau and I my books. We were working different shifts now, and, by degrees, saw less and less of each other.

***

In September I left Kugler’s to try my luck in the tent and awning department of the Marshall-Wells Company. Not a dainty job, but it paid six dollars a week as against four, and I had to have that coat.

It was a queer experience, stepping into the big, gloomy barnlike department, smelling of leather, machine oil, and bales of canvas. Queer, but not the least depressing. The whirring motors of the machines, the rows of long windows, opening out upon the water, created a far from dreary atmosphere.

Mr. Clemetson, the boss, was a grave and kindly man, and the two girls at the whizzing machines were wonderfully decent. Margot was a brusque, dapper individual, efficient to her fingertips. Bertha, her cousin, had the sweetest nature of any girl I have ever met. She was a very plain person, and suffered from chronic bronchitis, but she had the kindest eyes, the swiftest thought for others, and not one shred of feline malice in her whole dear body.

My first day was spent getting the feel of the big power machine; feeding it miles and miles of double strips of canvas. Then came the light-flies, and, when my seams were sufficiently straight and trustworthy, eight-ounce wedge and wall tents.

Bertha, ever helpful, rescued me from a couple of crazy blunders, whereafter I was well away as an honourable tent-maker.

There was an old scallawag of a pock-marked sailor in the shop: Old Nelson, and what a card he was! Nothing but the patience of Mr. Clemetson kept him there, despite his efficiency with the mallet, ropes, and riveter. Nelson was true to the ancient type of salt-water sailor, and could not, for long, eschew the tempting bottle. The dear thing drank like a fish.

Every so often the old boy disappeared for a couple of days, only to creep in with the distressed air of a beaten pup, his ugly, scarred hands all a-quiver, and his whole, ungainly hulk jittery with nerves. But, oh, how meek! How painfully industrious! And how ignored by the boss—who, when the poor old thing was not looking, winked at us wickedly.

At his best, old Nelson was, to me, at least, an entertaining study. Squatting on a stool, a mass of tent before him, he whacked away with the mallet, punctuating every tenth ring with a spurt of tobacco juice, expertly aimed at the tin pail some paces to the right. And, when the mood was on him, he chattered of the sea, and especially of the dog-gone-danged heathen island where his ship lay quarantined with the pest.

For every ailment of the flesh Nelson had the same remedy: whisky and turpentine. Whisky for your guts, and turpentine to kill the dog-gone-danged germs. Sometimes, in the stress of honest emotion, it was quite a cross, holding to these ladyfied expletives; but the boss was a terrible stickler for the nice proprieties—if it killed him, the lion must bed with the lamb.

Old Nelson was very decent to me, cheerfully coming to my rescue if a huge tent became inextricably tangled behind my machine. Sewing a twelve by fourteen wedge tent of twelveounce duck is not quite the same as stitching up a fancy apron, or a cambric dress. Until I became accustomed to the weight, and had the skill to guide the cumbersome bulk expertly over the machine apron with my left elbow, it was back-breaking business.

To begin with, the mere sitting still, hour upon hour, after months of racing about from dawn to dark, was extremely trying. The constant drag of unaccustomed weight upon my arms and shoulders made me feel like a rheumatic old woman, before the day was done. And, cursed with a ridiculously sensitive hide, my finger-tips were a raw and painful mess.

But these whimsies passed: my fingers sprouted a protective callous, and my arms stopped complaining. I reached a point where even oiled canvas, stiff as a board, held no terror, and the bigger the tent, the better I liked it.

One day, jumping up to straighten the folds of a huge house-tent, I got my finger under the needle. Fortunately, I had not depressed the foot pedal on sitting down again, but only spun the wheel. The needle bit through the nail, and, of course, obeying a purely reflex impulse, I foolishly yanked the finger away.

Good old Nelson rushed to the colours with his trusty turpentine tin, a most abominably filthy tin!

‘Here now! Here now! In you go!’ said he, thrusting the silly digit into the can, and holding it there for fully five minutes. ‘Ha! That’s good! Let her bleed!’ said he, shifting his quid, and peering lovingly into the murky oil. ‘Many’s the cut that little cup o’ hell’s fire’s fixed! By Gar!’

Margot clipped the nail as well as she could. Bertha made a bandage from a handkerchief, and the boss poured out a cup of coffee. They were all as good as gold, and the many months spent with them is a pleasant memory. There were problems enough to solve, however. In the fall papa’s job played out, and he went to Winnipeg. Before leaving, he decided we must find a cow. If we had a cow, we should be in clover.

The only way to realize this marvel was to borrow forty-five dollars from a loan shark at almost 50 per cent interest. It would be my pleasant duty to discharge this obligation in weekly dribbles from my pay envelope. I can’t imagine a less thrilling Saturday excursion than those trips into the musty office of that fussy benefactor, who always seemed to be worrying about, looking for some invisible mouse.

Peering at me from under a counter, from the grill of a small cage, the dark hole of a steel vault; dark and dusty, with a smile that cracked his face uncomfortably; he seemed to my exaggerated fancy a horrible little man. I hated his pleasantries; his smiling, ‘So here you are, young lady—on time, as usual. And how are we to-day?’

Sometimes, when the weather had grown cold, and I shivered in my spring coat and thin, unprotected boots, I used to wonder what the old owl would say if I were to suddenly shout the truth. If I said: ‘I’m cold, drat your hide! Wet as a netted fish, thanks to your robbing usury!’ But such things are not said to a nice, Christian gentleman who still owns the head and horns of your cow.

As the weather sharpened we discovered that the little house was uninhabitable. It seemed to be a question of fewer hamburgers and a warm bed, or freezing to death on a smug stomach. After all, we had the cow. Rice with skim milk was filling enough for any enlightened soul.

In the course of time the blessed creature was paid for, thanks to a windfall from papa; whereupon, instead of investing in a warmer habit, I bought a giddy rocker and a high-boy. That was a proud moment, celebrated with much coffee and grand talk.

But, in the main, the season was dreary, with irascible weather, and nothing by way of entertainment. I had lost my taste for church socials, even if I could have indulged the extravagance. Lutefisk gave me the shudders, and the lame programmes acceptable to Pastor Bjerke left me wondering if the dead were all below ground.

Sometimes I wondered what I was doing on the top deck myself. More especially in the morning, when, at six-thirty, I went streaking for the car that meant an hour’s misery before I escaped into the friendly gloom of the wholesale house. Five miles, night and morning, on the only conveyance that, for some strange reason, turns me to jelly! For weeks I really suffered acute carsickness. After that, it steadied down to a sort of groggy feeling that introduced the day with a kind of dizzy leer.

But everything has its compensations. I used to turn my back on the flesh and the devil, so to speak, and rivet my attention to the street; setting myself the entertaining task of discovering odd characters; fixing this and that curious scene in my mind; forming a habit that has served me rather well. But, at the time, it was nothing but an antidote for nausea!

It was during this year that I also reverted to the infant habit of holding imaginary conversations in my head, selecting my subjects from the crowded car, putting words into their mouths which I thought fitted their expressions, dress, and gestures. It used to give me a start, sometimes, when these people lived up to the part, breaking into the exact sort of speeches, on greeting some acquaintance, that I had imagined for them.

It used to amuse me, too, despite the wooziness amidships, to watch the chance flirtations under way; to distinguish between the expert philanderer, with his quick appraisal, and the innocent youth with his obvious crush. Poor dears, they needed a practised eye in those days! It was the age of Gibson girls; the age of pompadours, stocks, stiff collars, whalebone, pads, ruffled corset covers, stuffed brassieres, long skirts, and tailored blouses. It must have been a tricky business, distinguishing how much, if any, girl there was under all this armour. And when the sweet thing finally yielded to her lover’s arms, the yielding was about as responsive as steel plate!

Of course, there were cunning tricks: peek-a-boo blouses for dress wear gave naughty hints of pink flesh; and a really daring miss seldom forgot the Anna Held method of exposing a wicked ankle. There was a way of grasping the skirt, in getting on and off vehicles, and even over the curb, which definitely published the alluring line of hip and thigh—providing it was a hip and thigh, and not just cotton padding.

In the evening, these tailored Gibson dummies gave place to effigies in princess gowns, dolmans, feather boas, floating veils, and enormous picture hats tacked to mounds of rats and rolls with murderous hatpins. But it remained a stiffly corsetted company, secure in virtue and discreet lisle hose.

None of this sartorial elegance was possible to me. My select wardrobe consisted of two serge skirts and four cotton blouses, which I had made myself at the extreme cost of twenty-five cents, and with these, I wore the approved starched collar and plain black tie. I made my own hat from buckram and felt braid, and sported a sheer wool veil. Not a giddy outfit, but oh, my, how modest!

One thing I never would accept, however, were rats and a corset, which made me as lax in style as I was odd in lack of enthusiasm for hikes, picnics, Epworth Leagues, oratorios, and cantatas. I couldn’t breathe inside a casket of whalebone, and I couldn’t think inside conventional chicken-runs. Except for occasional qualms about Bannister, of whose rambling round the country Bob kept me informed for over a year, I was quite content to spend the nights alone.

I had discovered old Miss Rudd one day, selling books in a department store, and had begun reading Shakespeare. Not because it was smart, or elevating, but because I had begun to hunger for ideas expressed with power, wit, and beauty; to read for the sake of reading, which is nothing rare in an Icelander. Once in a while I visited the Careys. I had met them years ago, but, as they lived in East Duluth at the very end of Boulevard Drive, that famous roadway that circles the brow of the hills and commands one of the finest views in the Middle West, I seldom went there in my schooldays.

They were a jolly family. Mrs. Carey was a German woman with all the German virtues, married to an Irishman of good family, a little run to seed. Mr. Carey was a surveyor, and I had often, in my vacations, gone with the family into the logging areas.

One memorable winter I was stranded with them, in a camp, due to a terrific blizzard. I had to get back to school, and decided to walk. Maybelle, the daughter, and another friend, volunteered to guide me to the nearest village, which was five miles away. There was no road, just a blazed trail, which we followed over windfalls and waist-deep drifts of snow.

At Nea an old Norwegian Woman took us in, dried our clothes, fed us fresh bread, rosettes, and quarts of coffee, put us to bed for the night, and all next day regaled us with the private lives of the villagers. Mrs. Swanson lived in my mind, undimmed, for years, and eventually, like so many other chance acquaintances, popped into a book.

The next morning I set out for Duluth with a teamster hauling logs, and quickly discovered that it was better to walk than to imitate an icicle atop the load. It was a twenty-five mile jog, and earned me a neatly frozen foot.

At the Careys, there was always a lot of laughter at my expense. They were all outdoor people, and tried their best to infest me with the holy fervour, with no better results than a good laugh at my incompetence.

I loved them very dearly, and until the day of her death Mrs. Carey was Mother Carey to me. But now that I was a young lady, Mother Carey thought I should make something of my figure. Really, a few decent stays in a foundation would give me quite a fashionable turn! Then, too, I ought to mingle with young folk, not moon about the books.

Now and then I went with the Careys to a party: real German jamborees, with fiddles and harmonicas, old-fashioned dances, beer, and Wienerwurst. But there was always something heavy-handed about German humour, something possessive about the men, which displeased me. I was much happier with the family, under their own roof, where the local youngsters often forgathered to sing around the old piano, while Mother Carey fed us raisin cakes and lemonade. And Grandma Rabb, spryest of old ladies, was always there in her corner, smiling approval, vain of her appearance and carefully curled bangs. And there was always a remarkable cat walking about, inviting an audience for his feline gifts and graces.

It was a friendly house, but a severely regimented house, where every tick of the clock defined certain duties to a hair’s breadth. I think that was what fascinated me at first. Mother Carey was a perfect Bismarck for discipline and efficiency. Everything, from the combing of her magnificent hair to the peeling of cold potatoes for the next morning’s breakfast, was regulated to the exact minute. Not only were there specific days for specific duties, but every hour of every day was predestined to its little dot of labour. Such a state of affairs would have driven mamma crazy. In our house, a new book, or the weekly paper, pushed everything to the wall. You did things that had to be done, but nothing was so sacred that it could not wait for a jolly yarn or a bit of political bickering in the paper! A trip to the Careys was a like a dash of salt in the soup: it stiffened the moral digestion, but a dash was enough. Coming back to the funny little house where mamma sat with her knitting beside the glowing stove, with its heavy, happy kettle humming and the coffe-pot screaming for attention, was always a revelation most welcome. A rediscovery of other, older, mellower values that made you content to curl up like a cat and be your lazy self.