Mable Riley

by Marthe Jocelyn

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14

  May I never live through such another day as this, should I live to be seventy-seven!

  I did not expect to ever fall asleep and yet awoke with Viola shaking my shoulder, telling me she'd finished breakfast, that it was nearing eight o'clock.

  “Go on without me,” I said as I began to dress. A plan had arrived in my mind while I slept, and I prepared now to put it in motion.

  “Do not test me by coming late to school,” said Viola.

  I would be very late, indeed, I realized, if I managed to come at all. I sat upon the edge of the bed with a thump. Viola looked sharply my way.

  “I am ill,” I said. “My head is spinning.”

  Viola placed a palm against my forehead, as our mother always does.

  “You have no fever,” she said.

  “No. I have a chill. And I am dizzy.” I lay back, as if anticipating a faint.

  Viola glanced at the bureau clock. She should have her cloak on and be ready to leave by now. I fluttered my eyelids and twitched my fingers ever so slightly.

  “The men are gone already to the outer pasture,” she said, “to fix that fence they spoke of. And Mrs. Goodhand, too. She is at Mrs. Campbell's for the day, making the relish. There is no one here to care for you.”

  “I shall sleep,” I said. “I have never felt this way before. I should not go to school else I infect the little ones.”

  Still she would not leave! “You do not look ill,” she said. “And yet it's not your way to be a malingerer.”

  “You'll be late,” I whispered.

  And finally she departed, even smoothing the hair back from my cheek before she went. I lay still, with drumming heart, until I heard the kitchen door close and then her bootsteps across the porch. I dressed and brushed and braided and buckled and laced, hurrying in case I lost my nerve. I was downstairs before ten minutes had passed. I felt swept with dread as I stood in the pantry. What would this day bring?

  Don't think, I thought, and forced myself to action.

  I cut a slice of bread and took an apple with me. I had decided to take Darling and the wagon. I hoped the apple would encourage her to be more patient with my clumsiness. But Alfred had taught me well, and I managed the hitch with no great difficulty I tried to force away the notion that I was actually stealing Darling, having already lied to Viola…. What punishment would be assigned for the crimes I undertook?

  I had never been to the Forrest house, or the factory, of course, but knew their home lay off the main road toward Stratford. I set out away from school and Sellerton with Darling trotting along as an easy accomplice. I prayed that no familiar passerby should see us.

  A signpost eventually directed me to the Forrest Family and the Bright Creek Cheese Company down the same road. We came to the house first. It is perhaps twice the size of the Goodhand farm and four times Mama's.

  I felt quite choked for a moment. This was my very last chance to turn back. It helped my resolve to see Cathy and Frank Forrest on the veranda, pink cheeked in the frosty morning. They waved as Darling slowed, and darted into the yard to meet us.

  “Miss Mable!” They clapped their hands and pummeled me with questions.

  “Why are you here? May we come to school again? Will you take us for a ride? Are you going to the factory? Are you going to see the trouble?”

  I put my hand up for attention as I do in the classroom.

  “What do you know about the trouble, Frank?”

  “Papa wouldn't let us go with him.” He pouted. “The lazy girls are getting a smacking to-day, but he won't let us watch.”

  My stomach turned over.

  “It's not fair,” said Cathy. “Usually it's us getting a smacking, and now it's someone else and we can't watch.”

  “It's not a nice thing to see,” I told her. “I don't like it one bit watching Miss Riley strap someone, do you?”

  “Better watching than getting,” grumbled Frank.

  “That's true,” I agreed.

  The door behind them opened.

  “Frank and Cathy Forrest, you get back on the porch this instant!”

  Mrs. Forrest stomped out, coming down the steps to shoo her children back up to the safety of the veranda. They leaned against the railing, peering over her shoulders while she faced me with her arms crossed.

  “Well?” she growled.

  I managed, “Good morning, Mrs. Forrest.” Suddenly my plan seemed foolhardy at best.

  “You're not here to wish me well, that much I know.”

  “I have come …” I hesitated and glanced at Frank's and Cathy's listening faces. Surely she would do nothing dreadful to me in front of them?

  “I have come to beg you to intervene in the trouble at the factory, Mrs. Forrest. Is there not a better way to solve differences than to bully the women? Surely, as a woman yourself, you have some sympathy for their plight?”

  “Their plight, missy? And how would you describe their plight?”

  Oh, dear. My lips were numb. How could I form the words?

  “I mean only, well, the plight of unhappiness.”

  That sounded foolish. She snorted.

  “Is it your treasured Mrs. Rattle you're worried about?” she said. “You are smitten with her, Mable, and your admiration is misplaced. She is a rich girl playing at rough games to which she doesn't know the rules.”

  “What rules? What do you mean?”

  “Papa has lots of rules,” said Frank. His mother shushed him quickly before turning back to me.

  “Mr. Forrest makes decisions that are good for business and will indirectly benefit everyone.” She sounded nearly patient, as if she were speaking to a very thickheaded child. “It is not for the worker to question the master. Only someone as pampered as Mrs. Rattle would complain.

  “You leave the adult business to adults, Mable. It seems to me that your interference has not been requested. Should you not be at school?”

  I had no answer to that. I should be at school. And perhaps there were aspects to the situation that I could not understand.

  But I had one more plea. I lowered my voice, so as not to frighten the children. “I am afraid the women will be hurt by the policemen. Would you be able to forgive yourself for not stepping in?”

  “My conscience is certainly my own affair,” said Mrs. Forrest. “No one will get hurt if they pay attention to common sense.”

  “But what if there is trouble? What if someone is maimed? Or killed?”

  Oh, great goodness, what if?

  But Mrs. Forrest was done with me. “Pah!” she sighed angrily. “It's whining, spoiled girls who are forcing my husband to show who's boss to-day. Sometimes a sharp word is enough and sometimes not. If he's forced to wield a strong arm, then so be it. It will all be over and back to the cheese vats tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Forrest! Couldn't you just try to stop it?”

  “I'm on my way over to Bright Creek right now,” she said. “I'll see what's to be done. You'd be showing some sense to get yourself to school before I report you truant.”

  She turned away and marched up the steps, putting an arm around each child and pushing them ahead of her into the house. I knew she was trying to frighten me away, but even knowing the ruse, it worked. I shivered with fear, tears welling, and ran to the cart.

  My efforts had likely come to naught. Should I hurry back to school to save my skin? Too late for that. I urged Darling into action before I had even sat myself properly down. We hurried along, the wind nipping the wet streaks on my cheeks. When we turned the next bend, I pulled on the reins and stopped us short.

  Outside the Bright Creek Cheese Company was a swarm of singing women, waving painted signs in the air and wearing lettered sashes across their chests. I did not see Mrs. Rattle at once, but noticed Helen Stevens holding up a sign that shouted “FAIR WORK FOR FAIR PAY!” Her face was rosy from cold, but perhaps from excitement as well. They were certainly having a time of it, linking arms and singing out verses
of “Rescue the Perishing” with great energy. I realized after several moments that there were only about a dozen women, but they were making enough disturbance for a larger crowd.

  At one corner of the brick building lurked the menacing presence of six mounted policemen holding their horses at bay, presumably awaiting an order to do otherwise.

  It was nearby the officers that I saw Mrs. Rattle. She was wearing her bloomers and the scarlet cloak. She was arguing (or at least it looked that way from my distance, as she gestured and grimaced) with Mr. Forrest, whose face was twisted in loathing.

  I climbed down from the cart and unhitched Darling so that she could nose the ground for tidbits. As if by a magnet, I found myself drawn toward Mrs. Rattle and her former employer. Despite the lilting verses of the protestors, I came close enough to hear the altercation. I hesitated between the wall and the first horse, not willing to reveal myself as an eavesdropper.

  “We're asking for a reasonable compromise,” Mrs. Rattle was saying. “We could meet now, in your office, to discuss the possibilities. There is no cause to threaten us with these horsemen.” She looked up at the officers, who ignored her.

  “There is nothing reasonable about you,” said Mr. Forrest. “You are insane. I do not intend to speak with you any further.”

  “There is a difference between insanity and justified anger, sir.”

  The women's song turned into a chant. “We want fair work! We want fair pay!” They began to sway as they called out, a few steps forward then a few steps back. Mr. Forrest called to an officer.

  “This has gone far enough!” He tried to step around Mrs. Rattle, but she blocked his way.

  “We want fair work! We want fair pay!” I joined the cry as I ducked back among the protestors, not wanting to be found eavesdropping by Mr. Forrest.

  The horses moved toward the women at the same moment, their hooves looking heavier and closer with every step. We could be crushed, I thought. I stopped dead. This was not a story or a drama. This was real! Real harm could come of this. My jacket felt too tight and hot. My ears buzzed. One of the protestors dropped her sign, pressing herself against the wall of the factory building to avoid being trodden on.

  At that moment came a shrill cry. The women's voices paused, and I looked behind me to see Mrs. Forrest hurtling toward us, holding her skirts up out of the way of her thick boots.

  “What are you doing here?” shrieked Mrs. Forrest, advancing on Mrs. Rattle. “You no longer work at Bright Creek. You are trespassing on this property! If you are not departed within one minute, I will have you arrested!”

  Any hope of reason evaporated as Mrs. Forrest faced her foe.

  Mrs. Rattle was now flanked by the Forrests. She turned toward the marching ladies and raised her hands as if she were conducting an orchestra. They lifted their voices in a hymn as Mrs. Rattle's smile beamed out to cheer them.

  But in one indignant motion, Mrs. Forrest pushed her, using both hands to send her sprawling. Mrs. Rattle's head hit the frozen ground with a sickening bump and she crumpled.

  “No!” I cried. “No!” A scream of outrage rose from the factory women, but the policemen instantly formed themselves into a barricade that prevented their intrusion.

  I know not what propelled me or where I found the nerve; I squeezed between two horses and there I was, clutching at Mrs. Forrest's cloak to yank her back from Mrs. Rattle. I tried to thrust her aside and raised my fists in a fury. My hands met her shoulder, and I shoved, hard, knocking her onto her bottom. Her google-eyed look of shock nearly made me laugh in the midst of the horror. She struggled in her winter layers to right herself like a flopping beetle. I turned away and knelt at once beside the still, slight figure on the ground, slipping my arms beneath her.

  “Arrest her!” cried Mrs. Forrest, somewhere above me. “Arrest them all, officers!”

  I stopped listening. Mrs. Rattle had not moved. I held her head in my lap, checking first that there was no blood. Her lips and cheeks had gone white, seeming especially pale next to her dark lashes and wild hair. I shut my eyes and leaned my face so close to hers that I could feel her breath. I wept with relief. She was breathing.

  Now I noticed the confusion around me. The police were herding women into a row of horse-drawn wagons, which waited in the lane beyond the factory. Mr. Forrest was pacing while his wife shouted orders.

  “Take that one!” Mrs. Forrest pointed a finger at me. “Take that little spitfire!”

  An officer lifted Mrs. Rattle and carried her to a wagon while I trotted alongside like an anxious pup. But when he'd set her down on the wooden boards, he firmly picked me up and dropped me next to her. His thick fingers grasped my waist and flung me up with no trouble at all. Never had I been so handled by a man! Already in the cart were Helen Stevens and another woman.

  “Oh, goodness!” said Helen. She pulled off her cloak and tucked it around Mrs. Rattle but started to shiver at once, having on only a factory smock over her dress. As the officer bent down to shove Mrs. Rattle's feet back from the edge, the bristles on his neck were mere inches from my face. I shuddered and drew back, but with nowhere to go.

  Only then did I recognize my situation fully. Mrs. Rattle was injured. We were being taken somewhere by the police. I had changed somehow from an ordinary girl into a criminal. When the wagon began to move, I realized also that I'd abandoned Darling and the cart! First stolen, and then abandoned! However could I explain to the Goodhands?

  “Excuse me, sir?” I called to the driver, but he paid no attention. Mrs. Rattle's head bounced as the wagon wheel stuttered on a rut and she cried out. I carefully lifted her head and rested it upon my thigh. I chewed my lip to hold in tears.

  “Are you not the girl who served tea in Mrs. Rattle's parlour a few weeks ago?” asked Helen.

  “Yes,” I said. She looked every bit as cold and unhappy as I was. “Would you like to share my cloak? It's not much, but …” I unfastened the neck and held it open. She smiled and crawled closer so we could hunch together and try to stir up warmth.

  “My horse is back there,” I said, pointing. “Not mine really, which makes the matter worse. What will happen to her, do you think?”

  “Someone will come upon her,” Helen assured me. “She will not be harmed. It's us I'm worried about!”

  Before the end of the drive, not so long as an hour, Mrs. Rattle came awake and was astonished to discover the time and so many miles gone by. She sat up and looked about. She seemed slightly groggy but waved to the women in the wagon following ours and to the mounted policeman who escorted us.

  “We must sing as we disembark,” she said, “to show them our spirits are not bruised, even if our skulls are.” She rubbed the back of her head. “Ooh, that hurts.” She had me touch her “goose egg.”

  “What will happen to us?” I asked. “Are we to be jailed?”

  “That would be best,” Mrs. Rattle said calmly. “If we are put in jail, there will have to be a notice in the newspapers.”

  She saw my reaction and squeezed my hand. “You have no cause to worry,” she said. “I know not what brought you here this morning, Mable Riley, but this is not your battle.”

  “Oh, but she fought,” said Helen Stevens. “When Mrs. Fatty Forrest pushed you down, Mable did the same to her!”

  Mrs. Rattle looked upon me in amazement. “Did you, indeed?” she exclaimed. “I wish I had seen that!”

  We all laughed and I was proud to be with them, part of a cause, one of the believers.

  Mrs. Rattle began to sing as we clambered down from the wagons. All the girls joined in, and we made a motley choir as we filed into the Perth County Courthouse. But Mrs. Rattle tugged on the sleeve of one of the officers, and it was clear that she spoke of me, for he turned to stare in my direction. As the factory girls were led down a corridor, Mrs. Rattle's man took me aside.

  “You'll be waiting here, miss,” he said.

  “But !” I wanted to follow Mrs. Rattle, but the officer simply shook his head
and pointed to a chair.

  Mrs. Rattle reached out a hand to me. “Later on you will forgive me,” she said quickly. “I've told them you came to Bright Creek quite by accident. You are too young to be imprisoned, Mable Riley You'll have other chances, I am certain!” She laughed and hurried away along the hall.

  My chair sat next to a large desk manned by an earnest young sergeant with a dimple in his chin.

  “If you'd care to wash up a bit, miss?” he asked.

  I looked down and realized my hands and clothes were splashed with mud. My face must be the same! I nodded at him and was directed to a small room off the foyer. As I emerged, I heard the voice of Mrs. Forrest and peeked out to see her, with her husband, looming over the young man at the desk.

  “I will speak with the highest-ranking person on the force,” she insisted. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency when leading citizens are attacked on their own property!”

  The sergeant went away and came back shortly, to lead the Forrests into an office out of sight. Finally, I could return to my seat.

  The wait began. I wished I were with the other women so I would at least have company. Instead, I sat dreading the reappearance of the Forrests and wondering what was to be done with me. The worst part about waiting is not knowing how long the wait will be. I fidgeted with boredom and nibbled a little on my fingernails.

  When the young officer returned, he shook his head and grinned at me.

  “I can't figure out if he's the boss or she is.”

  I smiled. He was very kind, actually. He shared tea from his jar and half his meat sandwich, for which I was very grateful, not having eaten to-day except a slice of bread. I didn't feel nearly so frightened once he was there. His name is Sergeant Sherman and he has just turned twenty, like Alfred. In the beginning he seemed a bit wary, as if I might be cracked in the head, but I explained what had happened and he said he would put in a good word for me. He said he'd never heard of such a disturbance in Perth County before, which made me worry more.