Meet Me at the Clock, page 17
I squint in response to the brightness of the day as I leave the library, with the book stowed in my bag. Chuckling to myself, I am both amused and relieved. The librarian confirmed my suspicion that it was Masao’s age and not his heritage that kept her from lending him the book.
I stop by the deli and purchase three sandwiches and a bottle of soda, as Thomas requested. My stomach grumbles as the employee wraps the freshly made sandwiches in brown paper. I remember the somewhat squished peanut butter sandwich waiting for me at the bottom of my bag. Clara’s voice pops into my head with a reminder to be thankful for what I do have, not to covet that which I do not.
I pay the clerk and tuck the sandwiches and soda into my bag. Holding Thomas’ change tightly in my grasp, I look both ways and dart across the street, the theatre’s large neon sign guiding my way, although it is unlit this early in the day.
As I reach for the theatre door, it swings open wide and forcefully. I open my hand to stop the door from hitting me square in the face, and Thomas’ change scatters to the sidewalk in a jingle of coins.
Sarah steps through the door, her face mottled by fresh tears and black mascara. “Oh, Louisa. I didn’t see you there.” Sarah brushes past me, apparently in a hurry to leave.
“Sarah, where are you going? I have your lunch.” My words are inadequate for the emotion contorting her face. “What about the play?”
“I can’t do it, Louisa.” Sarah shakes her head. “No, I won’t do it.”
“What are you talking about? You are Mrs. Craig.” I step over the spilled coins and reach out a hand.
Sarah takes a step back, unwilling to be drawn back in. “If you think you can tolerate him, then I dare you to try. He is an oaf and a fool and one of the meanest men I have ever met.”
My shoulders sink. Sarah has found her gumption at last. Unfortunately, it isn’t the sort she plans to leverage for the benefit of the play. “But if you aren’t the lead, there will be no show at all.” My voice breaks with swirling emotions. My plan to build a career, supporting role by supporting role, is crashing down in front of me. The decision to pass on the lead of Mrs. Craig, though difficult, was sound. It allowed me to focus on my smaller role without the unsettling question of whether my success should be attributed to my talent or my looks.
“I am sorry, Louisa. Truly, I am.” Sarah’s voice softens for a moment as our eyes meet. “You’ve been kind, and I am grateful to have met you.” Tightening up her posture, she squares her shoulders, the defiance running through her taking control once more. “But I am through.”
Without another word, Sarah turns on her heel and scurries away as though the theatre is on fire.
Maybe it is, I think to myself as I pick up the loose change and tug on the heavy door, uncertain of what I will find inside.
Chapter 22
Wednesday, October 19, 1927
Clara
I am still ruminating on Louisa’s remark about me being meant for greater things. It’s true that I stepped up and helped organize our team of fifth-floor maids, but I can’t quite convince myself that I was responsible for our success last Friday. I didn’t really take charge. I simply did as Ms. Thompson instructed.
I am no more special or capable than any other maid here. I scan the locker room as the ladies I’ve come to respect from their work ethic prepare for the day ahead. My eyes land on Jane Morgan primping in front of the small mirror. Even Jane has stepped into the position, albeit with a little protesting along the way. Still, over the past several months, she has shown herself to be a competent maid.
When we are here, at The Hamilton, we are all on equal footing. We are maids. We clean, scrub, and tidy for the benefit of those who can afford the luxury of extended travel. No matter where our paths began, we are quite simply working-class women. Louisa may strive for greater aspirations, but I feel fortunate to be working in this fine hotel with these women who value a good day’s work as much as I do.
I tie my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck and secure my cap with hair pins. A shiver runs the length of my spine as I recall the last time I showed the slightest interest in a life among higher society. One minute, Louisa and I were sharing a carefree moment, strolling behind a flapper couple out on the town, me imagining what their life might be like. The next minute, we were caught up in an ugly scene, with Louisa going toe to toe with a complete stranger over an incident that had nothing to do with us.
Even as the scene plays in my mind’s eye, I am disappointed with myself for making a bad situation worse by intervening. I had no authority to step in, and doing so only made the situation spiral further out of control. I don’t know how Louisa manages to assert herself when provoked without batting an eye.
I shouldn’t have gotten involved at all, even though I felt immensely sad for the man with the groceries. Embarrassed for him. Even scared for him.
I’ve always thought it prudent to keep my head down and do my bit to contribute to my family and those around me. When faced with the harsh reality that not everyone is treated fairly in this city, I can’t help but wonder where I fit into that equation. And do I have any role in finding a solution?
“A penny for your thoughts.” Rebecca Smythe leans in and whispers, “You seem deep in thought. Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” I glance up at Rebecca, her eighth-floor maid’s uniform crisp and vibrant. “No,” I concede with the gentle encouragement of her kind smile.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Rebecca steers me away from the group, to a quieter corner of the locker room.
“I am not sure.” I pause, my face twisting in concentration. “Have you ever felt like you should do more? Like life might be calling you to step beyond what you are comfortable with?”
Rebecca’s head tilts as she considers my question. “Planning on joining the circus, are we?”
A laugh erupts from within me. “Not exactly. Oh, I don’t know. Feel free to ignore my rambling. I was only considering something Louisa said. I suppose I’ve let my free-thinking, ambitious sister get under my skin.”
Ms. Thompson enters the locker room, clearing her throat to draw our attention.
As we shuffle into place, with all eyes on Ms. Thompson, Rebecca whispers in my ear. “You know, not all of Louisa’s ideas are ill-advised.”
“Ladies, I have an announcement to make.” Ms. Thompson’s voice echoes through the cavernous room. “I’d like us all to come together to congratulate Miss Perkins on her recent engagement.”
The room comes alive with chatter and well wishes as Miss Perkins blushes and smiles.
“We wish you well, Miss Perkins, and may you have many years of happiness.” Ms. Thompson’s faint smile indicates her sincerity. “Now, ladies.” Ms. Thompson lowers her hands in front of her, palms flat, signalling for us to quiet. “What this means for all of you is that a position as an eighth-floor maid will be coming available in a matter of weeks.”
The noise level rises again, with high-pitched chatter over the deeply coveted position.
Rebecca reaches out a hand to clasp mine. “God works in mysterious ways, Clara, but I can’t think of a time when I saw Him work so very fast.”
I glance sideways at Rebecca, a question forming on my lips.
“You just told me that life might be calling you to step beyond what you are comfortable with. I didn’t think your wondering would be answered with such speed.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.
Rebecca shakes her head. “Don’t even think about letting this opportunity pass you by. Even if only to save yourself from Louisa’s wrath, should she hear you didn’t apply for the position when you had the chance.”
Ms. Thompson interrupts my thoughts. She goes over the process for those wishing to be considered for the position on the eighth floor. A numb feeling grips my body, and my worry shifts from the position to my current inability to move at all.
Fifteen minutes later, I am in a fifth-floor guest room, bent over a porcelain tub, with a cloth in hand. Though I have no idea how I’ve managed to get myself here, I have a vague recollection of Rebecca steering me toward my cleaning cart before climbing the remaining three floors to her station on the eighth floor.
I rinse the tub free of my baking soda scrubbing agent. The water swirls down the drain, making a gurgling sound that reminds me of the tut-tutting of two older ladies last summer. Louisa and I were leaving the apartment with a list of errands to complete on our day off from the hotel. The ladies were sitting, blocking the steps down to the sidewalk, and appeared less than eager to move in order to allow us to pass.
Louisa greeted them in her cheeriest of voices, with warm words about the lovely day ahead. We were a few strides away from the front door when I heard one of them say to the other in her most condescending tone, “Renters.”
I might have stopped in my tracks, but Louisa kept moving forward, unfazed. I still don’t know whether she heard. All I remember is feeling put in my place.
This, I think to myself, is what I must call upon the next time Louisa tries to coerce me into stepping beyond my station. These little slights remind me that advancement is beyond my opportunities.
Others see me as a girl from a poor family or a girl who lost her mother—labelling me as orphaned, although my father remains the head of our household. The woman from The Newbury marked me as a renter, her disgust evident. In the eyes of some, I am just a girl. A girl without a voice or social standing. Invisible, like to the clerks in the dress shop. How does anyone rise above their station when others are intent to keep them down?
By lunchtime, I have convinced myself that applying for the eighth-floor maid’s position is a bad idea and would surely lead to disappointment. If I were to apply, I would wind up making a nuisance of myself, trying to be something I am not. I would rather face an angry Louisa. Rebecca is waiting for me at the entrance to the lunchroom, and for once I am not keen to see my friend at the midday break.
“Sooo . . .” She draws out the word. “Have you given any more thought to applying for the position?”
“I have.”
Rebecca cuts me off with her exuberance. “I am so happy to hear it. I just know you will make a fantastic addition to the eighth floor.” We slide into chairs, placing our lunches on the table. “To think that we will be able to work together. I can’t tell you how excited that makes me.”
Rebecca is unwrapping her sandwich when I burst her bubble. “Actually, I have decided not to apply.”
“What? Why?” Rebecca’s disappointment creases her forehead.
“If you must know, I do not feel I am qualified for the position.” I scrub the word “deserving” from my mind as I infuse my posture with a false stoicism.
“Clara, you can’t be serious. You are the most qualified maid here.” Rebecca lowers her voice and gestures to those chatting animatedly around us. “Have you considered the raise in pay?”
“I have, but—”
“But nothing.” Rebecca pushes forward. “Let me see if I understand where you are coming from.”
I shrug and bite into my sandwich.
“You somehow think you are unworthy of a higher position. I truly don’t understand this, but let’s say I do. Have you considered that one of the ways to become worthy of a higher position is to work in one? The more challenging the position, the more opportunity there is to learn and grow.”
I concede Rebecca’s logic with a slight incline of my head.
“Besides, the higher wage would surely allow a little more room to breathe in that suffocating, worrisome brain of yours. You hardly spend a dime on yourself. Louisa had to browbeat you into shopping for new dresses, and even then you only purchased the one. Have you thought of what a higher wage would do for your family?” Rebecca pauses a moment, eyeing me warily. “Further,” she says, lowering her voice, “what if Louisa doesn’t keep her position at The Hamilton? She could leave to follow her theatre dreams. Have you considered how you and your father will afford to remain in the same apartment without Louisa’s income as a maid?”
Rebecca’s last question strikes fear into my heart. Once you’ve experienced poverty, it is impossible to ignore the effects it can have on your life. The threat of going without necessities filters into every decision I make, from what I buy at the market to the time I spend repurposing and making do. I have yet to find comfort in the financial security Papa, Louisa, and I have recently acquired.
“Don’t let this opportunity slide through your fingers, Clara. I believe you are more than capable of doing a wonderful job in this position. The only thing holding you back is a lack of belief in yourself.”
We eat the remainder of our lunch in silence, Rebecca giving me the space I need to sift through her advice. Even my oatmeal cookie is far less appealing than I expect it to be. As I chew, I think back to the forthright customer in the dress shop, who warned me against being a wallflower.
Maybe it is time for me to locate some courage. I sneak a glimpse at Rebecca, feeling my cheeks warm as I realize that the last risk I took of this magnitude was applying for my current position as a maid at the hotel. I can’t help but acknowledge the success of that decision, chuckling at the irony. I suppose I became comfortable after all.
Louisa has been telling me for months to find something that excites me. Rebecca is convinced I am a worthy applicant for this role. Even Cookie, with her new promotion in hand, tried to open my eyes to the opportunities that might await me.
My courage, it seems, is always in short supply when I need it the most. Mama’s voice rings in my memory and stills my nervous heart. She used to tell Louisa and me, whenever nerves got the better of us, that courage didn’t mean we would not feel the effects of fear. She said we were to recognize the fear and step forward anyway. She loved to quote Mark Twain, reminding us that “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.”
I cling to my memories of Mama, imagining how she might have seen my current situation. If she were here, she would tell me the same thing Rebecca did. She would tell me to be brave, and she would ask me what I had to lose by simply applying for the position. She would encourage me to go forward, reminding me that the only thing we can count on in life is change itself.
A soft sigh escapes my lips, garnering Rebecca’s attention. I keep my voice low, not willing to share my decision with anyone else in the room. “I suppose if I submit my application quietly.”
Rebecca’s smile grows wide, and her eyes crinkle with delight. “I won’t tell a soul.”
With a decisive nod, I take in a lungful of air. “I will inform Ms. Thompson tomorrow that I would like to be considered for the position of eighth-floor maid.”
Chapter 23
Wednesday, October 19, 1927
Louisa
“No good coming from in there.” Mr. Johnson’s voice startles me as I cross the theatre lobby. “No, ma’am. That man has vileness running though his veins, and he sure does know how to spew it.”
I spot Mr. Johnson by the ticket booth, wiping a damp cloth the length of the dark wood. “Is it really that bad?” I ask, the hitch in my delivery betraying my concern.
“Miss Wilson, I’ve seen a lot of actors who think themselves better than others, but I ain’t never seen one so mean to the bone. He’s like a dog who’s only been taught to fight.” Mr. Johnson makes another swipe with his cloth. “I feel sorry for that little thing who ran out of here. Don’t expect we’ll see the likes of her anytime soon.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.” I can’t help but wonder if Sarah was part of the reason Gerald has been so difficult. Perhaps she wasn’t appeasing enough for his liking. Or maybe the two simply did not get along, although she did seem rather easy to get on with.
I shake my head and glance over my shoulder, toward the theatre entrance. Biting my bottom lip, I ready myself to face the unavoidable news that the play has been cancelled. “Well, I suppose there is no point in delaying the inevitable.”
“Walk tall, Miss Wilson. Walk tall.” Mr. Johnson bids me good luck with a friendly wave.
I pull on the heavy door and find the stage empty, save for a partially dismantled set from the scene in the Craigs’ living room. I tread softly down the aisle, breathing a sigh of relief that I’ll have a moment to gather myself before Thomas breaks the news.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, the low stage lights casting soft shadows. I almost miss Thomas entirely as I prepare to sit in a theatre chair.
“Lou.” Thomas is sitting on the floor, with his back against the elevated stage. He gestures for me to join him, appearing much smaller than the man I know him to be.
“What are you doing sitting on the floor?” I cross the theatre but stand before him, reluctant to sit on the floor when there is a theatre full of comfortable fold-down chairs.
Even in the low light, I can see his cheeks flush with colour. “Hiding.”
“Hiding?” A teasing tone edges into my question. “Hiding from who?”
Thomas pats the floor beside him once more. Reluctantly, I place my bag next to the stage and lower myself to the ground.
A long, slow sigh eases past his lips. “Well, it seems we are without a Mrs. Craig.” His strangled laugh does little to lighten the words. “How does one produce a play called Craig’s Wife without the wife of Mr. Craig?”
“I’m so sorry, Thomas.” I place a hand on his forearm and feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt sleeve.
Thomas places his other hand on top of mine and a jolt of electricity rushes through me, heading straight for my heart.
A moment passes, each of us looking in the other’s eyes. My breath hitches as I break our connection. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Thomas swivels to face me, excitement blossoming on his face. “There is, Louisa. You can agree to play Mrs. Craig.”
“Oh Thomas, you know I can’t.” I stammer my put-upon excuses. “I don’t have the time. I am already exhausted between my work here and at the hotel.” I tuck the true reason for my resistance behind invented stoicism.
