Meet Me at the Clock, page 4
My shoulders rise to meet my ears, and I wish I could disappear into the floorboards. I could never be so bold, and yet here I am, under the clerk’s scrutiny without having spoken a single word. Embarrassment burns my face. I pay my bill as quickly as I am able before tucking my purchase into my shopping bag. Offering a gracious but quiet thank you to both the clerk and the defender of common courtesy, I slip out the door. As the door closes behind me with the soft tinkle of the bell, her words of advice pursue me like a searchlight seeking a fugitive.
I turn abruptly, in a hurry to extract myself from the scene and to arrive at the British grocer before it closes for the day. In my haste and with my eyes cast downward, I collide with another person on the sidewalk. Words of apology fly from my lips as I lift my gaze to find Cookie standing before me, bundled in a long woollen coat, a parcel tucked under one arm. “Oh, what a surprise.” My words race ahead. “Please forgive me, Cookie. I wasn’t watching where I was going. You aren’t working at the hotel today?”
“Clara, how lovely to see you. They do let me vacate the pastry kitchen every now and again.” Cookie winks and motions me out of the way of a passerby. “No harm done and no apology necessary. I imagine it would take more than your little self to bowl me over.” Cookie’s rosy cheeks glisten in the damp afternoon air. “Now, where is it you are off to in such a hurry?”
I point in the direction of the specialty shop. “The British grocer. They’ve only one packet of suet left, and I am keen to avoid mixing the stuff from scratch.” My nose crinkles in distaste. “After reading Mama’s recipe, I must admit I considered tossing the idea of mince pie altogether, but I was desperate to have a practice run before Christmas. Mama always made one for Christmas.”
Cookie lets out a hearty laugh. “Can’t blame you one bit. Nasty business, that suet-making. A mince pie is sure to brighten your father’s face, especially if he is fortunate enough to enjoy two within a few months of each other. There is something satisfying about a savoury pie. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it.”
When I told Cookie about our decision to delay our Thanksgiving feast until autumn, she presented me with a recipe the very next day. She guaranteed me a roast chicken made with a recipe from her private collection would soon become a family favourite, with no one missing the traditional turkey or ham.
“Louisa and I both have Sunday off in a couple of weeks, so we are planning to celebrate Thanksgiving then. I know it is a bit excessive having both the roast chicken and the mince pie, but it’s been so long since we’ve had much to celebrate.”
“You’ll be eating well for days. Mind if I join you at the grocer?” Cookie’s delight twinkles in her eyes. “I am always game for a chance to visit the specialty shops.”
“I’d be very pleased if you would.” Together, Cookie and I stroll toward the British grocer, her lighthearted banter erasing any lingering embarrassment over the events at the dress shop.
The kind lady at the grocer retrieves the package of suet from the backroom as Cookie peruses the rest of the shop. Her eyes are drawn to a shelf of black liquorice candy in tins covered with images of Britain’s blue, red, and white flag.
The clerk provides a few instructions on preparing the suet before I pay for it and tuck the brown paper-wrapped box into my shopping bag.
Stepping out the door, Cookie points further down the block with a gloved hand. “Do you fancy a cup of tea?” Her eagerness to continue our visit warms my heart. “The best tea house in all of Vancouver is right around the corner.”
“That would be lovely.” I incline my head in agreement. “Please, lead the way.”
We walk a few blocks, lost in conversation about the comings and goings of the hotel’s pastry kitchen. Cookie tells me about a mix-up with the sugar and salt delivery. Her good-natured chuckle puffs little clouds into the chilly air as we stroll.
“This way.” Cookie tugs on my coat sleeve, and I realize that we have walked straight into the heart of Japantown.
“Oh, I—ah . . .” My eyes scan my surroundings. Little dark-haired children dash about the street, and old women sweep front stoops with narrow brooms, their day almost at an end, I assume. I sidestep a man pushing a handcart loaded with produce.
“Watch yourself there, Clara.” Cookie draws me closer as we navigate the busy street.
“I beg your pardon. I’ve never . . . well, I suppose the only time I venture to this part of the city is with my father, on the way to a baseball game.”
“Ah, your father is a fan of the Asahi?” Cookie weaves her plump frame past a crowded shop entrance, waving a hand in greeting as she passes.
“He is. An avid fan.” Two men are seated on a stoop, hunched over a board game in the dwindling daylight.
“Here we are.” Cookie pulls on the door, and a light grassy scent washes over me as we enter.
A woman dressed in a dark blue, patterned kimono rushes forward to welcome us. Though her words are foreign to us, her manner indicates familiarity with Cookie. She bows in greeting, a timid but friendly smile upon her face.
Cookie gestures toward me, introducing me as a friend from the hotel. The woman smiles even brighter, adding a quiet “hello.”
She shows us to a low table. In place of chairs, four cushions rest on a sand-coloured floor mat. Despite our sitting on the floor, the setting offers a welcome respite from the chill. The woman dashes to the back of the shop before tucking herself out of sight behind a curtain separating the tea room from what I imagine is a storeroom.
“What a lovely treat to have you join me today, Clara. Masao’s mother seems delighted to meet you.” Cookie removes her wool coat, stuffing her gloves into the pockets before settling herself on the cushion across from me.
“Masao?” My eyebrows lift.
“Yes, Masao. The little Japanese boy who comes to visit the hotel from time to time.” Cookie waits a moment for recognition to dawn on me. “The one who enjoys a pastry now and then.”
“The little boy? This is his family’s tea house?” I can’t keep the surprise from my expression. “But I thought he was an orphan and—and that you were being kind to him, since his needs were great.”
Cookie’s boisterous laugh fills the small tea room. “An orphan? What in the world made you think Masao was an orphan? He has what my granny would have called a hollow leg, I’ll grant you, but an orphan he is not.”
I glance about the room, ensuring the boy’s mother has not reappeared. Despite her Japanese greeting and her shy hello, I can’t be sure our conversation in English would not be understood, and I would hate to offend her with my ill-informed notion of her family. “The first time I met him, he was digging through the garbage in the hotel alley, looking for food. He happily retrieved an apple core from the bin. I suppose—well, I may have misunderstood. But why would the boy be digging for sustenance when his mother is clearly more than capable of caring for him?”
“An apple core, did you say?” Cookie smiles. “Clever lad.”
Unsure of what she means, I continue, “I even offered him my own apple. To be honest, it took some convincing for him to take it.”
Cookie lets loose a guffaw. “Ah, it was the seeds he was after. He is desperate to grow an apple tree as a gift for his grandmother.”
“An apple tree?” I realize how wrong my assumptions of the boy were. I glance beyond the moisture gathering on the tea house window. “Wouldn’t it take years for an apple tree to produce fruit, especially in Vancouver weather?”
“I imagine it would.” Cookie shakes her head, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in amusement. “If anybody can grow a tree in a pot in the middle of Vancouver, I imagine it would be Masao. He is an industrious lad, without a doubt.”
Masao’s mother returns to our table with a tray of small, dome-shaped cakes I do not recognize, a delicate ornamental teapot, and two small cups stacked one on top of the other.
“Domo arigato.” Cookie bows her head in gratitude as the tea is placed between us.
“My pleasure,” Masao’s mother replies, her voice soft but her English clear. She delivers a gentle bow before leaving us to our tea.
“You speak Japanese?” I ask Cookie as she pours tea into both of our cups.
“A wee bit.” A soft shrug conveys her nonchalance. “Masao teaches me a word here and there.”
I sip the hot tea, relishing its fresh aroma. “Mmm, you are quite right. This is delicious.”
Cookie hands me a treat from the plate. “These are manjū, a traditional Japanese treat.
I nibble at the edge of the steamed cake. “So, why is Masao interested in growing an apple tree?”
“Family, I believe. He is a good lad. Curious and adventurous, but his heart is warm and it shines all the way to those dancing eyes of his.”
Cookie pauses for a sip of tea. “Masao’s grandmother came from the old country a few years after he was born, and the two of them have a barter system of sorts. She teaches him about his heritage, the language, and gardening. In turn, he teaches her English and about life in Canada. Sweetest thing, really. I came to Vancouver on my own, with no one and nothing to my name. I had to learn the hard way how to get by, when to speak. I even learned to tame my Irish brogue so as not to stand out.”
“You changed the way you speak? On purpose?” I think back to Mama’s English lilt and wonder if she too downplayed her accent to fit in.
Cookie chuckles. “Well, not exactly. I remember the first time I spoke of the rain bucketing down. I thought I was making idle chit-chat about the weather, but the woman at the boarding house didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. She looked at me as though I was right barmy.”
“I understand.” I nod, imagining how Cookie must have felt at being singled out. “Blending in is a simpler way of living.” I place my cup on the table. “Louisa thinks otherwise, but I am with you. Rocking the boat just isn’t for me.”
“Well, I didn’t say that, dear.” Cookie delivers a playful wink across the table. “I am quite capable of standing up for myself, as I am certain you’ve witnessed during my squabbles with Chef.”
“I see.” I take another bite of my cake before sipping more tea. “I must admit, I’ve always suspected your and Chef’s squabbles to be more in jest than anything else.”
“Do ya, now? Sometimes you need to make a fuss.” Cookie leans in conspiratorially. “Just make sure it’s for the right reasons.” Her eyes twinkle as she teases me. “Anyway, as I was saying, Masao adores his grandmother and wanted to do something nice for her. He asked me a few months back if I knew how to grow an apple tree, but I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest.”
“I can’t say I’d be of much help with that either.” I lift my teacup, savouring another sip. “Thank you for bringing me here. I am ever so grateful to you for introducing me to this shop, and to Masao’s mother. I can rest easy knowing the boy is very well indeed. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t worried for him.”
“You are a kind soul, Clara. A kind soul.” Cookie’s expression softens from that of a proud mother hen to something more forlorn. “But life isn’t as easy as you may think for those who are Japanese-Canadian. Having a loving family and a roof over your head isn’t enough to keep all the city’s ills at bay.”
I am about to ask what she means when Masao’s mother reappears beside our table. “Do you like?” she asks me, inclining her head toward the tea tray.
“Oh, yes. Very much. Thank you.” I bow my head, hoping to convey my sincere appreciation of her offering.
Cookie exchanges a few words with her in Japanese before insisting to pay for our tea, not allowing me the slightest opportunity to argue.
Masao’s mother meets my eyes. “You have a good friend in Cookie.”
“Yes. I do.” I reach across the table and squeeze Cookie’s arm.
Chapter 5
Monday, September 26, 1927
Louisa
Maggie’s insinuation that I am a trollop who uses her God-given good looks to elevate her status has pursued me like a bloodhound for an entire week. I’ve found myself drenched in sweat in the wee hours of the morning, woken from a dastardly nightmare in which both my reputation as an actress and the silky, thin fabric of my nightdress were torn to shreds. In the dream, a mob of angry theatregoers advance toward me, shouting that I am nothing more than a pretty face. In last night’s production, the jeering crowd called for evidence of my ability to act at all.
The bad dreams have continued to mock me, their grip tight enough to squeeze the life out of me. Thoughts of the nightmares and the lack of settled sleep have done little for my disposition. A weary body and a sour mood are the least of my troubles though. At The Hamilton, I’m expected to put on a brave face and a cheery smile. Each, unfortunately, is far more than I am currently capable of.
Clara’s attempts to cajole me into pleasantness are both heartwarming and infuriating. Sadly, we often lash out at those we love the most. Clara has been on the receiving end of more than one of my prickly responses this week, and even now, when I recognize the need to smooth the turbulence of our conversation, I find myself unleashing a storm of self-pitying anger.
My scornful expression must convey my internal dialogue. Clara, hands on her hips, exclaims with an exasperated tone, “I was only trying to help, Lou.”
“Did I ask for help?” My retort is excessive at best, since she only offered to make an egg to go with my breakfast. My appetite has waned as of late, and a slice of toast is all I can stomach. “I am quite capable of knowing what I want to eat, you know.”
“I was only suggesting you might feel a bit more energetic if you allowed me to prepare an egg for you.” Clara takes her plate and tea to the table, though I feel her eyes on me as I wait for my toast to brown.
I butter my toast and slump into the chair opposite her, my mind ruminating on what I must do, despite my heart’s displeasure. I fear I’ll lose hold of my theatre dreams—or more pressingly, my position at The Hamilton—due to the frivolous gossip of a bitter girl. I refuse to let Maggie and her fabricated accusations ruin my future endeavours. Even if it means I must tamp down my natural fun-loving disposition in order to blend in.
Last night’s dream, a jumbled mess of fears and memories, convinced me that the time has come to take action. I need a plan to ensure my position at the hotel is not in jeopardy. I may not be as happy working as a maid as I’d like, but I can’t stomach the thought of losing the position, disappointing my family, and unsettling our newly stable financial situation. Besides, I have no immediate alternative that will land me on stage, under a spotlight. The last time I sought such an opportunity, it nearly ruined me.
The memory of that cold, damp afternoon in February flickers in the back corner of my mind. The day had started out with great promise, despite having been recently evicted from our cottage on the Murray Estate due to Papa’s inability to maintain his job. I was trying to make the best of a bad situation.
I snuck out early in the day, tiptoeing past Clara as she lay deep in sleep. She had been working persistently to turn our less than hospitable apartment into a home. At the bottom of the stairs, I forced my feet into my nicest black pumps, though the day was really too cold for them, and donned my coat before heading out into the brisk city air. My spirits were high as I checked the slip of paper I’d hidden in my pocket, noting the address where the auditions were being held. If we were going to live in the city, I was going to find my way into the limelight.
A sigh sneaks past my lips at the memory of my naive hopefulness, garnering me an imploring look of concern from Clara. I fire an irritated scowl in her direction before returning my attention to the toast and my memories.
Looking back, I realize how unprepared I was for stage life in the heart of the city. I foolishly believed my success in my previous upper-class theatre group to be a sure indicator of future fame and fortune. Despite being the daughter of an estate employee, I was well received in the club after my initial audition. I had, after all, been awarded no less than the top supporting role—and often the lead—in every performance put on by that club, located in the most affluent neighborhood in Vancouver. Little did I know how stark the differences would be.
I arrived home that afternoon, defeated and branded a fool, spending the next several weeks nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart.
Now, all I can wonder is whether my talent for the stage or my good looks secured all those roles. Being beautiful certainly has advantages. More often than not, the benefits outweigh any negatives. Given the situation with Maggie’s wagging tongue, though, I am hardly ignorant to the downsides of having a pretty face.
“Are you sure you are feeling well?” Clara’s voice pierces my thoughts.
“I am fine,” I snap. Regretting my tone, I force a tight smile, aware I am fooling neither of us. “I’ll be fine. I believe the downward turn in the weather has me dragging my feet these days.”
“If you say so.” Clara moves toward our apartment’s small kitchen with her dishes, looking as though she wants to say more but deciding better of it as she continues past me.
Clara retreats to the bedroom to finish readying herself for the workday, and I rise from the table, clearing my dishes to the kitchen sink. Taking a final gulp of tea, I resign myself to the situation at hand. The Hotel Hamilton is apparently not the place I am to shine. Instead, I must disappear into the shadows of the rich wood panelling and bide my time until I can sort out my next steps.
Leaving the hotel’s employ for the chance at a role in the theatre would be rash and foolhardy, especially since I’ve been on the outskirts of the scene for months now. I suspect it will take some time to reacquaint and bolster myself. Then I will make an informed decision about where my future truly lies.
