Meet Me at the Clock, page 3
“You’re just sore because you didn’t come up with such a clever solution.” I recognize Hazel’s voice, muffled but distinguishable.
I stop just inside the door, its closing hinges drowned out by the conversation and the commotion of girls readying themselves for the day. Unease pokes at me, and I feel my breakfast sink like a stone in my stomach. I linger out of sight, the overheard words settling uncomfortably under my skin.
“Who are we talking about now?” I hear Jane Morgan pipe in. Her recent promotion to full-time day maid is new enough for me to have forgotten she’s now a regular presence in the locker room. I lean forward a smidge to peer around the corner. Jane tilts her body, her face inches from the mirror on the wall, a tube of red lipstick in her hand.
“Why, the oh-so-charming Miss Wilson.” Maggie’s throaty laugh echoes off the concrete-block walls and reverberates around the room.
I suck in a sharp breath at Maggie’s confirmation. The girl does not like me. My mind spins. I have been nothing but kind and supportive to her, to all the girls. I thought I was making friends.
Jane’s lipstick retreats from her lips as she tosses a perturbed look over her shoulder. “Which one? You are aware there are two Miss Wilsons, are you not?”
“Maggie is referring to Louisa.” Hazel moves toward Jane, stealing a glance in the mirror as she fixes her maid’s cap. “But as I said before, I don’t think we should be discussing such things. Especially when Louisa’s brilliant idea made a challenging task much easier.” Hazel faces Maggie once more, raising her voice for emphasis. “For all of us.”
I catch Jane’s smirk from my spot in the shadows and draw back in anticipation of her words. Though I have yet to understand why Jane behaves so, her occasional bouts of spitefulness remind me of a cornered cat, its claws out and ready to pounce.
“I don’t see the reason for the fuss, Maggie.” Jane’s voice becomes less audible as she returns her attention to the mirror. “If what Louisa did was helpful, what have you got to complain about?”
I am surprised but buoyed by Jane’s sensible remark and lean forward once more, hopeful the conversation will take a turn for the better and my standing within the group will be restored.
“Louisa acts so highfalutin.” Maggie places her hands on her hips and attempts to mimic me by batting her eyelashes at Jane’s back. “Flirting with the bellboys and winking at the porters.” Maggie struts around the locker room with an exaggerated sway of her hips.
If her unkind words weren’t about me, I might find humour at her antics.
“You know, just the other day, I saw her deep in conversation with Mr. Olson.” Maggie pauses for effect, leaning in conspiratorially while waiting for all eyes to fall on her. “The whole thing made me wonder.”
“Made you wonder what?” Jane turns her full attention to Maggie, replacing the cap on her lipstick before resting both hands on her hips. Maggie squirms under Jane’s direct gaze as Jane repeats her question. “Made you wonder what?”
My breath is stuck in my throat, along with my usual self-assured demeanour. My hands grow clammy as I try to recall a conversation with Mr. Olson that might have been interpreted as anything but cordial. I come up empty. I’m torn between my distaste for Maggie’s insinuation and my appreciation of Jane’s defence of my good name.
“You know.” Maggie takes a step back, clearly uncomfortable for having been called out.
“I don’t know,” Jane retorts with a huff, “which is why I am asking.”
“I thought that maybe—” Maggie fidgets with her apron. “Well, I wondered if Louisa might be using her looks to gain an advantage of sorts, you know, in the workplace.” Maggie juts out her chin. “Perhaps Miss Wilson is receiving preferential treatment from her overly friendly advances.”
“Margaret Adams.” Jane steps closer to Maggie and, from my vantage point, appears to be winding up for a battle. “You should be ashamed of yourself. What has Louisa Wilson ever done to deserve such an accusation?” Jane points a finger toward Maggie. “Comments like that can ruin a girl’s reputation.”
“Oh Jane, don’t be so sensitive.” Lillian Roberts steps forward, prodding Jane playfully. “I told you there is nothing to worry about. The chatter at The Club went no further than the table we were sitting at.”
“This,” Jane hisses, her head tipped down in an effort to conceal her words, “isn’t about that.”
The room falls silent as the air between Jane and Lillian chills. A few moments pass before Jane collects herself, shrugging off the incident by stepping forward and positioning herself directly in front of Maggie. She pumps the neat bun tucked at the base of her neck and says in a softer voice, “If a girl has good looks, I find no fault in her using them to her advantage, especially when the intent is to help others.”
Jane turns to tuck her belongings into her locker before facing Maggie again. “Of course, Miss Adams, you may be unaware of what is expected of pretty girls in today’s society, given your lack of such appeal, but you may want to think better of looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
Jane shoots a dagger-laced look in Lillian’s direction before turning on her heel.
I am bolstered by Jane’s support of me, though admittedly unnerved by her proclamation that I get ahead by way of my appearance. I’d never do such a thing. Not since that vile director made me question each one of my past successes on the stage. I shake off the memory as my mind races between subdued relief at Jane’s impactful words and the worrying comments from Lillian and Maggie. I can’t help but wonder if a storm is brewing for Jane and me as I inch back toward the door.
Feeling a small measure of vindication, I stand a little straighter and try to forget my momentary cowardice. I should have immediately stood up for myself. As I have proved to myself time and again, I can continually grease the wheels of compliance when I invoke my charming nature.
My back stiffens as I catch a glimpse of Maggie. I am not intentionally using my looks to win favours from anyone. Her accusation is distasteful at best, and I can’t help but worry that her words may damage my reputation, should she continue to spout such untruths. Any young woman in 1927 Vancouver knows better than to test the ability of gossip to make opportunities vanish. Though I have no desire to be labelled a prude, being branded a tart brings a whole other level of shame to a girl’s family. Given my close call with that director, I cringe at the thought.
My elation at receiving Jane’s support is short-lived. I see her move in my direction, and panic ripples through me at fear of being caught eavesdropping. I am searching for how to present myself when the door opens, hitting me from behind.
“Oh, sorry Lou.” Clara takes a step back through the open door. “I didn’t mean—”
“Hush now,” I hiss, knowing I will have some explaining to do in the near future. I squeeze Clara’s hand in a desperate plea for assistance. “Follow my lead.” The words come out in a rush of air.
Clara’s puzzled expression pushes me forward, and I pivot, squaring my shoulders while adding a bemused smile to my lips. As Jane rounds the corner, I quip, “In a hurry to get started on the day, are we?”
She shrugs and passes us as we step forward to enter the locker room.
Hazel is the first to speak. “There you two are. I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it in time for roll call.” She takes Clara’s uniform from her, hanging it over a locker door before untying the apron in what I assume is an effort to lend a hand. “You know how Ms. Thompson can be.” Hazel tilts her chin, mimicking the hotel matron’s demeanour. “The early bird gets the worm, ladies.”
An amused chuckle runs through the group before several maids filter out of the room, allowing us a tad more space to change and ready ourselves for the day. Maggie is among those vacating, and I breathe a strained sigh of relief at seeing her go, quite certain the words I’d like to fling at her would put me in hot water with Ms. Thompson.
Hazel takes the uniform from my arms in an effort to spur me into action, eyeing the clock on the far wall. “Better hurry, Louisa. Being on the receiving end of Ms. Thompson’s frown is no way to start the day.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” I feel Hazel’s gaze on me and wonder if she has guessed that I overheard the conversation.
Ten minutes later, we are dressed in our matching plain blue dresses, with our hair neatly pinned under the caps I’ve yet to understand why we wear. Ms. Thompson details our day’s duties, assigning guest rooms and passing along any special requests the guests have made in the past twenty-four hours.
Standing in line with the others, my mind wanders back to Maggie’s spiteful words, which have left me feeling far more wounded than I care to admit. I had thought Maggie and I were getting on well enough, despite her generally disgruntled nature. I had reasoned that since she worked on the second floor and I on the fifth, we weren’t likely to be friends anyway.
Of course, Clara and Miss Smythe, who works on the eighth floor, have become bosom buddies despite a three-floor separation. I think back, searching my mind for a moment where I might have erred in a conversation with Maggie, but nothing that could warrant such unveiled accusations comes to mind.
Ms. Thompson’s voice drones on at the opposite end of our straight line. She runs a tight ship here at The Hamilton. We’re a crew of sorts, working together, anticipating one another’s needs, quickly stepping aside should we encounter a guest en route to or from their room.
I’ve been fitting in well, dutifully maintaining expectations in my role as maid and colleague. I assumed I was succeeding, always trying to appear willing to toe the line, but Maggie’s ridicule cuts deep. My nose tingles as a rim of moisture lines my lower lids. I jut out my chin in defiance and sniff discreetly behind a clenched fist.
Jane, standing three to my left, catches my eye with a sideways glance, her brow creased in question.
I force a smile, not wishing anyone entrance to my private thoughts.
Ms. Thompson is handing out additional tasks, the maids acting like they’re dishes of ice cream, thanking her for the opportunity to burden their day with more work than is possible to complete in the allotted hours. I can’t help but question the motivation of those standing shoulder to shoulder with me. They truly believe this is the best that life has in store for them.
A pang of guilt seizes my chest. I know I should be grateful. This position has enabled our family to set itself straight. In the beginning, I was keen to work in the hotel, thrilled by the allure of the illustrious new building. I had high hopes of rubbing shoulders with celebrities, musicians, and famous directors. So far, though, I’ve only brushed up against grime and rumpled bed linens.
A glimpse at Clara fills me with unease. She is bobbing her head in agreement as Ms. Thompson continues with her list. I regret the day I wiggled into what was clearly meant to be Clara’s adventure. She is sure to presume I’m being fickle, that I’m unreliable and unable to follow through on my promise of working alongside her. I can hear her rippling disappointment in the corner of my mind.
Shaking off the distasteful melancholy, I bolster my mood with the obvious truth: Maggie must simply be jealous of me. She hasn’t been graced with a pleasant demeanour, nor a pretty face. Even her hair frizzes, unwieldy no matter how much effort she puts into securing it in place.
I sniff, angry that I have to bear the fallout of her insecurities and jealousy. My posture stiffens in rebellion of the unpleasant situation before me. I have no desire to work among those who are unable to embrace another’s meagre good fortunes and talents. Besides, it isn’t as though I had dreams of becoming a maid. The situation presented itself is all. I cringe a little, knowing Clara must see my impulsive leap into the job as exactly that.
I give my head a shake. Girls like Maggie don’t matter one bit, I tell myself. She’ll probably spend the rest of her life cleaning up after others. I imagine she hasn’t even considered an alternative to hotel work.
At least I have my acting. I tilt my chin upward, envisioning the lights, the audience, the applause. I am an actress, and I will prove the naysayers wrong. I must concede that I’ve never been good at waiting for things to start going my way. Employment at the hotel is merely a distraction keeping me from my true place on the stage. Perhaps it is time for me to take hold of the reins once more.
“Miss Wilson?” Ms. Thompson’s voice and a poke in the ribs from the maid beside me pull me from my thoughts. “Miss Wilson, did you hear me?”
“No, ma’am. My apologies, I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.” Heat races to my cheeks as several heads turn in my direction.
“Very well. I asked that you bring up the large dog bed from the storage room for the guests in room 508. I have no details on the dog’s breed, only that he is indeed large.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ms. Thompson flips a page, muttering softly under her breath before addressing the group one last time. “That is all, ladies. If you need me for anything this morning, I will be in my office.”
The line breaks apart, and we disperse like schoolchildren at the ringing of an afternoon bell. I watch the other maids scurry, eager to attend to their list of duties.
Wait until they see me on the stage. The thought props up my wounded pride. A spotlight tracking my every move. An audience leaning in for each line I utter. I’ll show them all that Louisa Wilson was born to be a star. I am picturing my name in the marquee lights when the disturbing memory of my last audition intrudes on my daydream, causing me to recoil. I let out a weighted sigh and wander toward the linen cupboard to collect my cleaning cart. Even at The Hamilton, it seems, I am judged based on my appearance alone. The question is, what am I going to do about it?
Chapter 4
Saturday, September 24, 1927
Clara
The clerk in the dress shop hasn’t looked my way since politely greeting me when I pressed into the cubby of a shop, the bell jingling. Clutching a plain dress that I am hopeful will be in fashion for a few years, I check the time on my wristwatch again.
I’ve spent the past five minutes glancing about the shop, my patience wilting as I wait at the counter, ready to pay for my purchase. Both store clerks are caught in the web of a woman who seems determined not to decide which dress she favours most.
An exasperated sigh whispers across my lips as the woman insists in a high-pitched, grating tone that she “simply can’t decide between the dusty rose or the taupe rose.” Both dresses appear exactly the same to my undiscerning eye. I place my intended purchase on the counter and rest my elbow, cupping my chin in my hand. I thrum the fingers of my other hand against the polished wood counter, hoping to gain the attention of at least one of the clerks. One would have to be blind, or ignorant, not to notice me waiting.
I consider speaking up but recognize my lack of authority. The other shopper—a socialite, I presume, by the way she is carrying on—clearly has sway from the size of her pocketbook. I chide myself for such unflattering thoughts and return to gazing around the shop as I wait.
I check my watch again. The British grocer will be closing within the hour. The grocer is several blocks away from my usual market route, but a telephone call to the shop this morning confirmed the grocer had one box of Atora beef suet remaining. Desperate to get my hands on it so I can make a traditional mince pie, I promised the woman on the phone I would stop in before closing.
This year, the government decided to celebrate Canada’s Diamond Jubilee and our annual autumn Thanksgiving on the same July weekend. Louisa and I were both working that weekend, so we agreed as a family to delay our Thanksgiving festivities. With each of us immersed in new employment, postponing our Thanksgiving feast to the traditional time of year seemed sensible. I hadn’t considered, though, the difficulty I would have acquiring ingredients, given that the rest of the country celebrated the harvest holiday months earlier.
While the rest of the city buzzed with fanfare over Canada’s sixtieth birthday, Louisa and I worked straight through the weekend at a fully booked Hotel Hamilton, barely pausing to glance out the window at the merrymaking below. I wondered if a Thanksgiving turkey or ham still graced every table in Canada on July 3, 1927, or if all our traditions were foregone.
Two more minutes pass without the slightest glance from either clerk. I am considering placing the dress back on the rack and leaving the store altogether when an assured-looking woman leans in beside me, sporting a knowing smile.
“You know, if you act like a wallflower, my dear, people will treat you like one.” The woman winks mischievously as her red-painted lips spread into a wide smile.
Without a word from me, she raises a gloved hand in the air, waving it as I imagine a princess might be trained to do. “Yoo-hoo, excuse me. I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to interrupt.” The woman takes a step in the direction of the undecided shopper and the two imprisoned clerks. Inclining her head toward one of the dresses being scrutinized, she continues, “The dusty rose is the perfect colour for your skin tone, madam. I wouldn’t be inclined to let that one slip away.”
“Why, thank you.” The woman nods to one of the clerks. “I’ll take that one.” She hesitates a moment before adding, “The other two as well. One can never have too many dresses, I suppose.” She hides a sheepish laugh behind one hand.
“Excellent choice. All of them.” My newfound champion pivots toward me, amplifying my admiration of her as she gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes in my direction. “Now that you are free, I believe some assistance is needed over here at the counter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The younger of the two clerks, pins in hand, stands from her kneeling position on the floor and dashes to the cash register as though she has only this moment realized there are other customers in the shop. Once situated behind the counter, the clerk turns her attention to my rescuer, who has taken up a spot in line behind me.
“This young lady is first.” Gesturing to me, I sense her contemplating her next words and am struck by her command of the situation. Without removing her assured smile, she drops her voice an octave, meeting the clerk’s eyes. “A friendly reminder, love: this young lady’s money is worth just as much as hers.” She points a gloved thumb over her shoulder, indicating the society woman with her three dresses. “But if you ask me, it’s actually worth more, given how hard she is likely to have worked for it.”
