Meet Me at the Clock, page 13
“But what?” I try to hide my concern, but I know it is on full display.
“You have something else to say.” Louisa’s eyes narrow a fraction. “I can read it all over your face.”
“I guess I am wondering how you will fit such a production into your work schedule.” My hands clasp and release repeatedly in my lap. “You do plan to continue working at The Hamilton, don’t you?”
“For now.” Louisa smooths her dress over her lap with both hands, shooting me a knowing look. “I knew you’d be worried about that. Even though I’ve just told you I’ll be paid as an actress.” Leaning forward, she takes my hand, softening her tone. “You don’t have to worry, Clara. I have already sorted it out with Ms. Thompson. That is the reason I am so much later arriving home than I anticipated. As I already told you, I didn’t accept the part of Mrs. Craig, as Thomas was hoping I would.”
Louisa waves off her comments with a flutter of her hand, leaving me no room to question why she turned down the lead for a smaller role. “After I accepted the part, I went straight to the hotel and found Ms. Thompson. I have arranged to have my schedule altered to accommodate the rehearsal and performance calendar.”
“That is very responsible of you.” I weigh my words carefully, sensing I am still missing details of this arrangement.
“The thing is”—Louisa’s eyes roam the room, avoiding my face—“I have to work Sunday.”
Before I can even register the information, Louisa plows ahead, apparently trying to smother my objections. “I promise I will come straight home from the hotel and help with dinner. I promise I will.”
My face slackens, inviting my mouth to hang open unceremoniously. I couldn’t hide my disappointment even if I were inclined to try. “You mean to say that you won’t be here to help with the Thanksgiving dinner we’ve been planning for weeks?” Heat rises to my cheeks, warming my entire body in a sickly, feverish way. “Louisa, how could you? This dinner is important to our family. We haven’t had a celebration like this since—” My words are hindered by the emotions spilling out of me.
“Since Mama died,” Louisa finishes.
We sit in silence for several minutes. I wrestle with my whirling disappointment, while Louisa assumes a demure expression to pacify my anger. It doesn’t work.
Our silence is interrupted by the opening and closing of the apartment door. Both our heads swivel to acknowledge Papa’s return. He strides into the living room, a brown paper bag in his arms and a wide smile lighting his features. “Hello, girls.”
I push myself up from the sofa. Avoiding eye contact with Louisa, I plant a kiss on his cool cheek. “Welcome home.” I move toward the kitchen. “Looks as though you had a good day.”
Papa’s smile wavers as his gaze shifts between Louisa and me. “Hang on a minute, Clara. What’s gotten you two looking so glum?”
I call over my shoulder as I step past the dining table, “Louisa can fill you in. I’ve got dinner to make and a list of tasks longer than my arm.” I shoot Louisa a pointed glare. “Apparently, it’s getting longer by the minute.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Clara.” Louisa’s voice hitches up a notch, her impatience with me evident as she stands, both fists clenched.
“Yeah, I’m the dramatic one.” I shake my head in disbelief. “You’ve no idea, Lou. No idea what goes into keeping this home running.” I pivot to face her straight on, my hand gripping the back of a dining chair. “There is an order and a method to staying on top of the chores. Bread doesn’t simply appear, you know. Though I suppose it does for you.” My scoff tastes bitter, even to me.
“Order,” Louisa almost shouts. “That is all you know. Certainly, it wouldn’t hurt you to step beyond your little box. I swear it’s getting smaller every day.”
A bubble of anger rises within me. “I am not in a box.” The words are eager to spew, but I control them as best as I can, not wanting Louisa to see that she’s gotten the better of me. “One of us has to be mindful of the things that need doing.”
“Girls.” Papa steps between us. “I’ve no idea what’s gotten you so upset, but surely we can sit down and have a level-headed chat about it.”
Words fly from my lips before I can stop them. “What’s the point?” My shoulders lift and fall in defeat. “Louisa’s made up her mind, and as usual, she’s only considered herself.” I fix a steely glare on my sister. “Dreams, as I’ve said before, are foolish endeavours. Louisa is going to follow her whims, whatever they may be, while the rest of us adjust and pick up the pieces.”
Louisa cocks her head, a fire burning behind her glare.
My words are laced with ice. “Of course, I suppose it won’t be much of an adjustment, after all, given that she’s never contributed to the running of our home.”
Papa is about to interject, but Louisa beats him to the punch. “How dare you say I don’t contribute. How dare you.” Louisa mimics my crossed arms, her toe tapping the floor. “I consider the needs of this family every single day. I even went as far as arranging things with Ms. Thompson so that I could continue to bring in a steady wage—in addition to what I will be earning from the play, I’ll have you know.” Louisa’s chin tilts up, her defiance leading the charge. “I may not be as inclined as you to cook and clean and shop, but you can’t say I don’t contribute. You know very well that I do what I can.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “So, you expect me to take care of everything at home while maintaining the exact same job as you do at the hotel? How is that even remotely equal? When did housework become my sole responsibility?”
Louisa’s anger dissipates, and I know her next words are going to sting. “The house became your responsibility, Clara, when you decided you needed to control it. I thought you would have learned that by now.”
Papa places the brown paper bag on the floor as though about to say something. However, Louisa isn’t finished speaking her mind. “You view yourself as the sensible one, Clara,” she says, her tone calmer and more soothing. “You alone chose that road. You may not be comfortable with the idea of reaching for something beyond your station, but you could at least pretend to be happy for someone else.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” My anger is slow to submit.
Louisa steps past Papa and squeezes my upper arm. “I know the news that I’m moving on to explore my dreams makes you quiver inside.” Louisa lowers her chin to meet my eyes. “You could strive for more too, if you wanted to.”
I whisper my next words, for fear of hearing them spoken out loud. “I don’t think so, Lou. One of us needs to remain steady. Mama told me to take care of the family. I am only doing what she asked. This is what others need from me.” My bottom lip trembles under the threat of tears. “Even you.”
“You said it yourself. Adjustments need to be made.” Louisa squeezes my arm a little tighter. “How do you know how things might change unless you try? If you ask me, it sounds like you’ve been telling yourself stories about a future that hasn’t happened yet. Sometimes you need to get out of your own way to imagine different opportunities.”
My only response is a shrug. All I want is to be angry with my sister, to punish her for taking a risk while leaving me behind. But I can’t deny the halo of truth around her words. Maybe I am letting fear get in my way.
“Lord knows I can’t force you to do anything.” Louisa’s laughter fills the apartment before her tone turns serious again. “But I do hope you consider what I’ve said.”
Papa wraps an arm around each of us. “This reminds me of what your mama used to say when I was all caught up in a problem: The future is yet to happen. Why do you assume you know the outcome?”
I nod in understanding, feeling defeated by the logic but propelled by the whirring of my mind. My thoughts spin with the tasks ahead of me. Although this conversation has taken a turn, the reality is that Louisa will not be present to help with Thanksgiving nor with the everyday chores. My life is unlikely to change anytime soon, and that burden remains heavy.
I retreat to the kitchen, partly out of duty and partly out of a desire to be left alone. I prepare dinner while Louisa and Papa settle themselves on the sofa, where she tells him about her new opportunity. Excitement oozes from Louisa’s every pore, her voice climbing in volume as she talks.
What if Louisa is right? What if I am meant for greater things too? I travel down that line of thought as I chop carrots into small rounds.
I am yanked from my ruminations when I nick my thumb with the knife. I press a dish towel to the cut, stemming the trickle of blood. Running my hand beneath cool water from the tap, I force myself to come to my senses.
Stop it, Clara, I tell myself. Stop it right now. You should be grateful for all that you have. You are a maid in a fine hotel. Your family is safe and well nourished. Nothing good comes of stepping beyond your station.
Chapter 17
Thursday, October 6, 1927
Louisa
Several days have passed since my announcement and subsequent disagreement with Clara. Though we are polite to each other as we move about our small apartment, there remains an underlying tension. This unwelcome shift strains our relationship, despite my many attempts to smooth the disagreement.
I thought my prudent decision to square away my work schedule would be far more appreciated. After all, I took steps to ensure we would maintain our financial stability while I venture back into theatre life. It seems, though, that I have underestimated the importance Clara has placed on our Thanksgiving celebration. Even so, she doesn’t need me to get dinner to the table. We are both aware how she delights in planning and cooking, so I’m not sure why my presence will be missed before the actual feast.
Even within the walls of the hotel, Clara remains moody and indifferent toward me, sulking like a child over melted ice cream. Her avoidance of me has become the status quo these past few days, a situation that has caused more than one raised eyebrow among our gaggle of fifth-floor maids. Yesterday, Jane pulled me aside to inquire if all was well in the Wilson home. I can’t help but think that if Jane noticed, being famously unaware of others, then everyone must have.
I gather another bundle of soiled linens from outside a half-closed guest room door and add them to the laundry cart. Collecting the fifth-floor laundry this morning is the perfect task to accompany my contemplative mind. The discontentment between Clara and me runs through my thoughts on repeat, gaining no resolution and weighing me down. Normally, I would be less bothered by Clara’s coolness, but I can’t shake the notion that my sister, of all people, should be happy for me.
Pushing the laundry cart toward the service lift, I let out a defeated sigh. Thinking over the past few weeks, I continue to be pulled back to the situation on the sidewalk. I’ve asked myself a dozen times if Clara’s recent unsteadiness is about my new opportunity in the theatre or about what transpired that day. Perhaps seeing the way that drunk man treated the Asian man with the groceries struck a nerve in Clara. If I know anything, it is that once you’ve seen injustice up close, you simply can’t unsee it. Everywhere I look around this city, I become more aware of the pecking order, and I can’t help but wonder how it all came to be.
The lift arrives, and I squeeze myself and the cart inside. I press the button for the basement and feel the rush of cool air brush my skin, eliciting goosebumps up my arm. The laundry room is located at the far end of the dank basement, warmed by the heat of the oversized drying racks.
I say a friendly hello to those hard at work and position my cart in the long line to wait my turn to deposit the dirty laundry. Being a maid has many drawbacks, but each trip to the bowels of the building reminds me that things could be worse. I could have been relegated to laundry detail. Before the thought is fully formed, my awareness of those working within the room shifts into focus.
Not a single Caucasian face exists among them. They’re all female. Their ethnicities vary, but they all have warm skin tones that no Canadian winter could erase. Accents and languages I cannot decipher flutter above the din of constantly moving contraptions that take up most of the room’s footprint. I watch for a moment and notice that every woman has her eyes locked on the machine before her. A safeguard, I suppose, to avoid injury.
With vivid imagery of disfigurement slinking into my imagination, I turn abruptly and leave. Away from the machinery, the cool basement air slaps me in the face, along with the realization that my situation could most certainly be worse—and much more dangerous.
I take the back-of-house stairs to the fifth floor. The rule is to take the lift when transporting something larger than oneself. Otherwise, stick to the stairwell for efficiency’s sake. I arrive on the fifth floor slightly out of breath but ready for the next task, eager to hurry along the day’s work so I can move on to the main event.
I push all disappointing thoughts of Clara from my mind and focus on this evening’s rehearsal. I can barely contain my enthusiasm. The day of our first rehearsal has finally arrived. Thomas is gathering all supporting cast members in hopes of getting a jump on the smaller roles before focusing on the main characters. I’ve spent the week memorizing my lines to portray Mrs. Craig’s niece, Ethel. Though I have only a handful of lines, I am determined to deliver each with gusto.
As I pass by room 508, Jane pokes her head out the door. “Psst, Louisa.” She motions me back with a wave of her hand. “You help me with this one and I’ll help you with yours?” Her smile lingers, a sure sign that Jane would like a little company to help ease the day’s duties.
My left eyebrow lifts in a teasing challenge. “I’ve got a double next on my list. Are you sure you want to share the load?”
Jane giggles, her softer side much easier for me to coax out now that we’ve shared time and purpose together. “Only for you.” Jane widens her eyes in mock exasperation. “But don’t tell the others. I’d hate for it to get out that I enjoy working alongside someone.”
I follow Jane into the room. “Yes, that would be a real disgrace, wouldn’t it? Jane Morgan, a suitable working companion.” I can barely keep the smile from my words, and I stifle a giggle as I poke lighthearted fun at her. “Or perhaps Jane Morgan, the best partner a maid could have.”
Jane hides a laugh behind a raised palm before handing me the duster from her cart. “I haven’t had a chance to dust anything yet. If you can start on that, I’ll tackle the bedding.”
“Yes, ma’am. Louisa Wilson at your service.” I salute Jane by putting the feather duster to my brow, resulting in a series of sneezes that momentarily incapacitate me.
We putter around the room, returning items to their proper place. “Are you excited about tonight?” Jane asks, remembering a conversation we had earlier in the week about my new adventure.
“I am.” I reposition the lamp on the bedside table and give the tabletop a final swipe with the duster. “I can hardly believe my future begins tonight.”
“You know, I would have thought you’d have gotten the role of Mrs. Craig. I bet you’d make a good one.” Jane plumps a freshly cased pillow into place. “Did I ever tell you I saw the original on Broadway?”
I stop moving and meet her eyes. “Really?” I resist the urge to sit down on the freshly made bed and immerse myself in the coming story.
“A couple of years back, when it was all the rage.” Jane waves it off, as though traveling to New York is an everyday affair. “My father had business in the city and took me along to visit with his great aunt in Manhattan.” Jane plops another pillow onto the bed. “You know, come to think of it, I am pretty sure he brought me so he didn’t have to visit with her himself. She is, how shall I say . . . a vibrant woman, who resembles a thunderstorm rolling across a prairie.” Jane pauses for dramatic effect, and I wonder if she has ever considered a role in the theatre. “And that is when she is getting her way. I can only imagine how things might escalate should someone decide to tell her no.”
“What was it like?” I move to the other side of the bed and distractedly dust the second lamp and table.
“New York or the play?” Jane pulls the bench seat away from the bed frame and eyes the bedding from the floor.
“The play. New York. Both, I want to hear it all.” I dust the dresser, the frame of the mirror, and even the baseboards as I listen to Jane talk about her trip to a city I’ve only dreamed of visiting.
Another hour passes as we work in tandem, chatting all the while. With a final glance about the room, we declare the guest room well-appointed and push her cart into the hall, tucking it into an alcove before proceeding to the next room on my list. The double-bedded room is not the usual set-up for The Hamilton, but a few such rooms have arisen from guest requests, given the hotel’s limited number of rollaway cots. Parents, it seems, are toting their children with them as they travel to Vancouver, the summer being our busiest season for families.
Our conversation covering all things New York comes to an end as I manoeuvre my cart over the plush grey-blue carpet. Jane offers to tackle both beds while I deep clean the washroom.
I am lost in fanciful thoughts of the big city as I scrub and scour a particularly nasty case of tub ring. I tilt back on my heels as I consider Jane’s initial comment about the play. She thought I’d make a good Mrs. Craig.
My worry and regret are instant companions in the small, half-cleaned washroom. What if I made the wrong choice? What if this was my big chance and I blew it by opting for the safer, smaller role? My intention was to choose a place on stage where I won’t be singled out for my looks.
I’ll admit, my refusal of the lead felt akin to pulling a coat of armour over my heart. Could I have taken Thomas at his word? He said that he chose me because of my talent. Perhaps I didn’t give him the opportunity to demonstrate his integrity on the matter. If I’m being honest with myself, when it comes to Thomas’ heart-stopping attention, my view is clouded at best.
Doubt over my decision to shrink from the limelight has plagued me since the day I made it. I reason that I would be better off earning a career through hard work and talent instead of having it handed to me for my looks. Now, I can’t help but wonder if that is even possible. If I had trusted Thomas, would my appearance truly not have been a factor? A sigh slips through my lips, the weariness of repeated thoughts taking their toll.
