Meet Me at the Clock, page 14
Truth be told, I am happy with my pleasant appearance. I fear life would be far less kind if I were a homely girl. But surely, a career built on talent, perhaps with the benefit of good looks, must be long and healthy.
I stand and stretch my back before eyeing the tub from several angles to ensure all signs of soap scum have been removed. I catch my appearance in the mirror and tuck a few rogue hairs back beneath my cap. Then I set to polishing the faucets.
The afternoon’s tasks are suitable company for the butterflies gathering in my stomach. Mama was right, a busy hand does indeed quiet a busy mind. I arranged to work through lunch, opting to leave the hotel a half hour earlier than usual to arrive on time for the first rehearsal. The decision, it seems, was a good one. Given my nervous state, I would likely be unable to eat a bite.
As four thirty nears, I tuck my cleaning cart into its spot in the linen cupboard and head toward the lobby to confirm my early dismissal with Ms. Thompson. I hug the dark wood panelling near the registration desk, trying to become invisible to mingling guests. Ms. Thompson is speaking with a petite, middle-aged woman in a striking ensemble that looks as though it was ripped right from this month’s fashion magazine.
I catch Ms. Thompson’s eye and she gestures for me to wait a moment. Ms. Thompson hands a room key to the man behind the desk before shaking the woman’s gloved hand.
As the woman walks toward the front door, Ms. Thompson strides over to me, her posture conveying her command over this hotel. “Thank you for waiting, Miss Wilson. I realize you are in a hurry this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for allowing me to leave early for the day.”
“All your rooms have been situated?” Ms. Thompson asks. “Nothing has been left unattended?”
“No, ma’am. Everything is in order.”
“Very well.” She offers a quick nod. “Good luck, Miss Wilson. I’m sure—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” The woman with a fashion sense I can’t help but admire closes the gap between us. “I did have one more question.”
Ms. Thompson turns to the woman, her lips stretched into a forced smile. “Yes, how can I assist you, Mrs. Barnes?”
The woman tilts her head back as she looks me up and down. “Well now, you are a knockout, aren’t you, dear?”
Ms. Thompson stiffens beside me. “Miss Wilson was just leaving.” She smiles at Mrs. Barnes before saying to me, “Off you go now. We wouldn’t want you to be late.”
My cheeks flame, and I turn to retreat from the hotel’s lobby.
Mrs. Barnes’ voice echoes past me as I near the entrance to the back-of-house corridor. “What floor does that one work on?”
I steal a glance over my shoulder and see Mrs. Barnes pointing a finger in my direction.
“Miss Wilson is one of our most accomplished fifth-floor maids.” Ms. Thompson’s words are polite but terse.
“In that case, my husband will stay on the eighth floor. The suite you showed me will do just fine.” Mrs. Barnes continues, “I’ll have to keep my eye on that.”
I reach the door that leads to the corridor beyond, but I am stalled by a trolly of afternoon tea cakes.
I hear Ms. Thompson’s voice, lowered with concern. “Keep an eye on what, Mrs. Barnes?”
Mrs. Barnes dismisses Ms. Thompson’s question. “I know we agreed to a regular room, but if you can arrange for an eighth-floor suite, I will ensure the rate is paid prior to my husband’s arrival.”
I sneak a final glance in their direction before sliding through the door. Ms. Thompson’s expression appears unsettled, but without knowing who this Mrs. Barnes is, I can’t understand exactly why.
Before I can dash to the locker room to change out of my uniform, Cookie stops me with a crushing embrace.
“Are you off, Lou?” Cookie releases me just as fiercely. “We are so proud of you.” She beams, her cheeks glistening with beads of perspiration.
“Thank you.” I squeeze Cookie’s hands, overjoyed that someone is glad that I’m moving my life forward, even if my sister isn’t. My disappointed thoughts vanish when I spot the clock on the wall. “Oh my, I best be off or I’ll be late for sure.”
“Off you go, then.” Cookie hollers after me, “Opening night will be here before you know it. I can’t wait to see you up on that stage.”
Cookie’s words trail after me as I dash down the hall toward the locker room, more than ready for my next adventure.
Chapter 18
Sunday, October 9, 1927
Clara
With my hands coated in flour, I use my arm to sweep the damp hair from my forehead. Fatigue from my pre-dawn start to the day creeps in, reminding me of Mama’s warning about burning the candle at both ends.
The poem “First Fig”—a favourite of hers since she read it in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s book of poetry, A Few Figs from Thistles—would slip from her lips like a song. Mama had a way of making even the most mundane reminders sound beautiful. Her enchanting English accent would accompany the cup of tea she placed before Papa as he prepared for a long day of work during planting season at the Murray Estate.
* * *
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
* * *
I smile at the memory, thankful for its company this morning as I work my way through Mama’s recipes in preparation for our Thanksgiving feast. Yesterday, I baked late into the evening after a full day at the hotel. My work yielded a traditional mince pie and the sweet cinnamon-scented delight of a nearly perfect apple pie.
After Louisa informed me I would be cooking the meal without her assistance, Papa did his best to convince me to scale back my plan for Thanksgiving. “A roast chicken,” he said, “will be more than enough for our celebration.” I dismissed his advice, reasoning that I had already purchased the suet and the other ingredients. I had known from the outset that my vision for Thanksgiving was ambitious. Deep down, I crave the reassurance of seeing how far our family has come. Our Thanksgiving Day feast is a celebration of our accomplishments and a memory I am sure to tuck away for future comfort.
The five years since Mama passed have held no milestones, no celebrations, and very little in the way of traditions. This Thanksgiving is an opportunity for us to reclaim those moments. Though events from here on out will be coloured by Mama’s absence, I know in my heart that she would want us to pause and celebrate every one.
As I scan the cluttered counter of our small kitchen, I have to admit that my well-intended enthusiasm might have gotten the better of me. I pour boiling water over tea leaves and let it steep to a dark brown colour, willing the hot beverage to perk me up as I reach for my list.
With the mince pie tucked into the icebox and the apple pie resting on the kitchen table, I check the dinner rolls baking in the oven. For what feels like the twentieth time today, I run my finger down my list of tasks. I take a sip of hot tea and decide the scalloped potatoes will be next.
With no counter space left for peeling and slicing the six potatoes I acquired from the grocer on my way home from the hotel yesterday, I set to cleaning the kitchen and organizing a fresh set of ingredients. Scalloped potatoes are a new dish for me, and though Cookie talked me through the crucial steps, my stomach tightens as I begin work.
Cookie’s voice rings in my memory. Take your time with the potatoes. This is where so many stray. They need to be thin like paper. Use your sharpest knife, and be sure to have a bright kitchen to work in so you can see what you are doing. Gesturing with her hands, Cookie pretended to slice imaginary potatoes on her pastry kitchen countertop. Slow and steady, Clara, is all it takes.
“Slow and steady.” I say out loud to myself as I peel the first potato.
An hour later, I have a baking dish layered with gooey goodness and ready for a spell in the oven. Cookie assured me that cooking the potato dish ahead of time and then warming it while the chicken rests would be most efficient.
With thirty minutes to fill while I wait for the potatoes to bake, I gather my recipes and a few sheets of stationary and settle myself at the table. I promised to send Aunt Vivian a few of Mama’s favourite recipes, and the prospect of sitting down for a moment is more than a little appealing.
* * *
Dear Aunt Vivian and Josephine,
Today is our Wilson Thanksgiving celebration. I felt it was only fitting to include both of you in our festivities, so I am enclosing Mama’s recipe for mince pie, as well as her famous apple pie recipe.
One afternoon when I was a young girl, she told me a story as she rolled out the dough and I waited to help her crimp the pastry’s edges. At the time, I thought she was teasing me with a funny story, but given your continued interest in the pie recipe, I wonder if she was in fact sharing a secret with me. This memory warms my heart more than I can tell you. I hope you smile just as brightly with the recipe in your own hands.
Josephine, in the event that Aunt Vivian leaves out the details, please let me explain to you what my Mama told me. She said that while growing up, she was the baker in the family. She delighted in the task of making mouth-watering goodness from only a few ingredients. I am sure it will come as no surprise that her apple pie was a family favourite here in Canada too.
The story goes that Aunt Vivian, who was never one to bake, according to Mama, harassed my mother to no end for the apple pie recipe. While she and your father were courting, he would occasionally come to dinner with the family, and he said my Mama’s apple pie was his favourite dessert.
Aunt Vivian was so eager to please her beau that she pestered Mama for months about the recipe. I should mention that as my mother told me this story, she had one of the most devilish grins I’d ever seen. In the end, Mama told Aunt Vivian that she wouldn’t divulge her apple pie recipe until Aunt Vivian straightened up and agreed to marry the poor boy.
I am not certain of the circumstance that led to her never sending you the recipe, but I can tell you that I will forever treasure Mama’s apple pie for so many reasons beyond its deliciousness. You will find the recipe included with this letter. May it warm your heart and your home as it does ours.
In other news, my adventure-seeking sister seems to have found herself a new opportunity to explore. I know I should be polite and simply relay the details of Louisa’s new undertaking, but I am still annoyed with her as I write this letter. You see, she fancies herself an actress. I will not deny that she is talented, but she is keen to make a living in the theatre. The theatre, of all things!
She recently arrived home with a role in a real production. I know I should push my worry to the side and let Louisa be Louisa, but I can’t help but be concerned. What if she loses her position at The Hamilton due to scheduling conflicts with her rehearsals and performance dates? What if she does find success and leaves us forever?
* * *
The pencil clatters to the table. Tears spring to my eyes as the realization dawns on me. I am upset with my sister not because I worry she won’t succeed, but because I fear she will. All along, the problem has been me. I don’t want her to leave. My head drops into my hands as tears tumble down my cheeks. This is what Louisa meant about me being stuck in a small box, unable to see beyond.
My mind flashes back to the night on the sidewalk with the Asian man and his groceries. She was the brave one. While I made a mess of the whole situation, she risked her own safety for another. All this time I’ve been viewing Louisa as impulsive and unthinking, but she knows exactly what she is doing. I’ve never spent much time looking beyond my lot in life, but Louisa has. It is time for me to start trusting my sister as the intelligent woman she is.
I am still sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, when Papa returns home. I try to wipe my tears, but my red blotchy face is a sure giveaway. He kneels before me in concern.
“Clara, girl, what is the trouble?” His soothing tone is enough to elicit even more tears.
“I’ve been so wrong.” The words give themselves up as reluctantly as a sunny day in February.
“Wrong?” Papa’s brows converge. “Wrong about what?”
“About everything. Louisa. This dinner. Even my path in life.” My shoulders fall as an exhausted sigh deflates my body.
“Oh, darlin’, it can’t be as bad as that.” Papa reaches into the bag that has dropped from his shoulder. “Look, I went to Stanley Park, special for you.” He pulls out a handful of colourful leaves larger than his palm. “I found one of almost every variety in the park.” He places them gently onto the table. “Look here, I’ve got a big-leaf maple, a black cottonwood, a choke cherry, a red alder, and even your favourite, a Pacific dogwood. I thought you’d enjoy something special to decorate the Thanksgiving table with.”
I finger the purple and red Pacific dogwood leaf, shimmering with autumn colours.
“I have a few boughs of evergreen too. I thought you might like to arrange them the length of the table and place the leaves among them.” Papa extracts a handful of pine, their fragrance filling the air.
“They are beautiful. Thank you.” I lunge forward, embracing him in a fierce hug.
My nose catches a whiff of something other than the forest scents, and I pull back from Papa, lifting my wrist to check the time. “The potatoes!” I stand abruptly, almost making him totter. I move with urgency toward the oven and sigh in relief as I remove the baking dish. The steaming scalloped potatoes have not a single singe. “I almost forgot about them. Dinner would have certainly been ruined.”
“No darlin’, I think you might be missing the importance of Thanksgiving. Dinner is about us and all we have to be thankful for. Now, I am grateful for the food and all your effort. The grumbling of this old stomach of mine confirms that.” Papa steps closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “But it isn’t everything. We have each other, and that is more important than anything else in this world.”
Papa steps back and surveys the kitchen. “Now, what can I help with?”
“Why don’t you arrange the table, and I will set to work on the chicken and vegetables.” I check my watch again, having already forgotten what time it is. Heeding Papa’s words, I am intent to be thankful for our family, even when we disagree. “Louisa should be home in a couple of hours. I think it will be nice to have everything ready when she arrives.”
Papa’s expression turns serious. A flash of grief darts across his face before he hides it from sight. “Thank you, Clara.” He washes a hand over his face, and I know he is feeling the absence of Mama’s presence in our world. “Thank you for filling our home just like she would have.”
I squeeze his hand in mine, pushing aside my weariness. My life may not be as glamourous as Louisa’s, but I have done right by my family.
Chapter 19
Wednesday, October 12, 1927
Louisa
With a cold chicken sandwich made from Thanksgiving leftovers tucked into my bag, I stifle a yawn as I pull on the theatre’s heavy door. The concrete-coloured sky does little to encourage my early start to the day. With many of the play’s cast members working other jobs, Thomas has been forced to be creative with the rehearsal schedule.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays are long days that begin with the rising sun and end only after Thomas is satisfied with the current scene. During the remainder of the week, Thomas shuffles cast members as he pieces together each actor’s after-work availability. I am convinced the man is not only a director with a vision for the production, but also a magician.
I shake off the morning chill as my shoes clack rhythmically across the tiled lobby floor. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson.” My cheeks lift at his brilliant toothy grin, all the more welcoming for its contrast with his dark skin.
“A good morning it is, Miss Wilson.” His broom doesn’t stop moving. “You have a blessed day now, you hear?”
“Thank you, kind sir. I will do my best.”
Our shared banter is only days old, and yet I can’t help but feel a kindred spirit in him. It began last Thursday, as I dashed through the theatre’s doors, trying to outrun the rain. The tiled floor, polished to a shine, was like Lost Lagoon frozen in winter. My hurried steps into the lobby sent me slipping and sliding across the tile. Mr. Johnson, anticipating my collision with the floor, grasped me by my arms with two strong hands, steadying me and setting me straight.
I thanked him profusely as he guided me through the lobby, to the plush carpet of the auditorium. On our short walk to the stage steps, I learned he and his family have lived near Park Lane for several years. Mr. Johnson has two boys, aged nine and eleven, and a wife who apparently sings like an angel. I was instantly taken in by his joyful disposition and have since found his presence within the theatre to be welcome and comforting.
I step quickly along the slight downward slope toward the stage. On the opposite side of the stage, Thomas is flipping through his notes. From his ruffled dark locks and his rolled-up sleeves, I can tell he has been here for several hours already. I say a quiet hello to a few cast members lounging in the first few rows and make my way toward Thomas.
Pulling a flask from my shoulder bag, I clear my throat to elicit his attention. “Thought you could use some coffee.” I lift the narrow bottle to eye level. “Had it filled at the diner down the way.”
“You are a godsend, Lou.” Thomas takes the coffee from my hand and doesn’t waste a moment. He twists off the cap and pours the strong, dark liquid into the cup’s lid before meeting my eyes again. “Thank you.”
