I set to waiting, not knowing for what.
I know a little of what happened elsewhere while I was sitting in that chair at the police station because Viola and Alfred have told me what occurred to them.
Viola says she worried all morning, it being so unlike me to feign illness that she imagined the symptoms indicated a sudden and serious condition. At noon she told the children they would have an extra half-hour for their lunch time and left instructions with Elizabeth to assume leadership should Viola not return. (Elizabeth claims that Viola behaved in so peculiar a fashion that the children became concerned. Irene cried all afternoon, howling that Mable was dying and poor Irene would never learn to read without her.)
Meanwhile, Viola walked home, hoping to find me recovered somewhat, but of course not finding me at all.
Now she knew not whether to be furious or terrified. Had I run off to perform some mischievous escapade? Or were my wits so deranged that I had staggered across the fields in a delusional fit? As she paced the kitchen, wringing her hands, Alfred and Mr. Goodhand arrived home for the midday meal, which Mrs. Goodhand had left for them under a tea cloth on the table.
Viola had time only to tell them that I had disappeared when Mr. Goodhand interrupted with an oath.
“What the Devil … ?” he said, gaping out the window. “Will you look at that?”
“That” was Darling, plodding her way up the drive.
Alfred went out to assure himself that she was unharmed and led her back to her stall. Then he realized the cart was missing and returned to the house to inform Viola.
“Why would Mable use the cart? And where is it now? Has she taken a tumble? Is she lying somewhere with a broken ankle or unconscious?”
Mr. Goodhand sat and ate his lunch while Alfred tried to console Viola. But her fancied fears took a new turn. “Oh, dear, no! Darling could not have unhitched herself from the cart. Someone must have released the horse! Mable has been abducted!”
(Alfred has since said that he dared not eat his pickles and cheese for fear of offending Viola, but his stomach began to make noises, grumbling for attention.)
Luckily, Roy arrived on his bicycle and rushed into the house with news.
“I've been at the Watson store in Sellerton,” he said, still breathing heavily from his ride. “Mrs. Watson has had a call on her shop telephone from Mrs. Rattle. Your Mable is with her at the courthouse in Stratford!”
Here, Viola says she gasped. (Alfred says it was more of a scream.)
“There was a big to-do over at Bright Creek,” Roy explained. “The women were striking and had a bit of a struggle with the Forrests. The police were on the scene –”
“What of Mable?” cried Viola. “Is Mable all right?”
Roy paused. He had not realized the level of Viola's distress.
“I believe she's under arrest with the rest of the ladies,” he said. “She's not hurt that I know of. Mrs. Rattle's the one that got hit on the head. …”
But Viola had run out the door and was halfway to the barn before she remembered there was no cart to take her to Stratford.
“Roy!” She hurried back inside. “May I borrow your bicycle?”
“Have you ever ridden a bicycle?”
“No, but I –”
“It would take more than two hours to cycle all the way to town,” he said. “And that's if you know how. The bicycle is not the answer here.”
At this point, Viola confesses that she collapsed at the table with her head in her hands and began to sob.
The three men looked at one another over her head and had a swift and silent conference. Mr. Goodhand set out across the field to borrow Baron and the Campbells' buggy and to tell his wife the news. Roy conceived of a plan to cycle to Bright Creek, leading Darling by the reins. When they reached the factory, he would put the bicycle in the cart and have Darling drive him home again. Alfred allowed Viola to cry until she was empty, while he collected an extra blanket and lantern for the ride, guessing the return journey would be in darkness.
All this time and longer, I sat on the hard chair next to Sergeant Sherman's desk, replaying the morning's events and wondering what was to become of me. But (and I admit this with an overcoat of shame) only slowly did I expand my wondering as to how my actions may have affected anyone else. I thought of Viola, but only that she would be annoyed with me for missing school. I thought of the Goodhands, but only to anticipate their irritation with the missing cart. I thought of Mama, and how I could likely never bear to tell the truth of this day's folly.
But was it indeed folly?
I knew the answer at once. No.
Folly is “foolish” and folly is “thoughtless,” but what I did to-day was neither of those things. (Perhaps it was folly that I pushed Mrs. Forrest, but that was not my purpose in going.) I woke up knowing I should go to Bright Creek today, following Mrs. Rattle's belief that girls and women need to be heard. I like to imagine there are little groups of women in villages and factories and cities and farms all over the country who began by whispering at Reading Circles and slowly are raising their voices until they are singing like rain and hollering like thunder.
I would do it again.
As I declared this to myself, Alfred and my sister came into the foyer, blinking while their eyes adjusted to the dim light so that they did not spy me until I flung myself at Viola.
“Mable! Oh! Mable!” Viola hugged me hard, laughing and crying together.
“You've come!” I cried. “Thank you! How did you know where to find me? Oh, thank you! Viola! Alfred! Both of you!”
Viola and I clutched each other, and Alfred stood by, timidly patting a shoulder on each of us.
“Let's take you home,” he said. “My parents will be relieved to see you.”
“Oh, Alfred, the cart!” I confessed. “It was left at Bright Creek.”
“Roy has gone to fetch it,” said Viola. “We'll tell you everything on the way. You have much to tell us also, I am certain.” A note of reprimand crept into her voice.
“May I take her?” Alfred asked Sergeant Sherman. “Is there a paper I need to sign?”
“Oh,” he said. “I don't know. She hasn't been charged with a crime that I know of, else they'd have her in with the others. I'd best check with the lieutenant.” He clicked his boot heels together and scurried off. He was back in under a minute, but here my heart sank into the mire. He was followed by a stout man in uniform, as well as by the Forrests! The lieutenant's rank had not intimidated Mrs. Forrest, for she was scolding him, as strident as a jaybird.
“We want some assurance that justice will be swift, that these women will be punished –” She stopped and stared at me, causing Mr. Forrest to stumble against her.
“Here is the very person who assaulted me! This child is dangerous! Why is she not locked away in a cell?”
Sergeant Sherman looked from me to Mrs. Forrest and back again, as did the lieutenant.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Forrest,” said Viola, ever the one for manners.
“Do not speak to me, Miss Riley Your sister attacked me this morning.”
“But you pushed Mrs. Rattle first!” I protested. “How can you say I –”
“Do you hear how saucy she is, lieutenant? She has a devil in her bosom!”
“You say yourself that Mable is a child, Mrs. Forrest,” said Viola, speaking up for me! “Surely, if her temper –”
“You were not there, Miss Riley. You did not see her transformation into a rabid barn cat. As you are not a witness, you are not included in this conversation.”
“I am a witness,” said Mr. Forrest.
We all looked at him. He licked his lips and hunched his shoulders up and down. He did not look at Mrs. Forrest.
“The girl pushed my wife,” he said.
Mrs. Forrest turned in triumph to the lieutenant. “There,” she said. “You see?”
“But,” said Mr. Forrest, raising his voice just a little, “my wife pushed the other woman fir
st. Pretty hard, I reckon, because her head just clunked.”
Mrs. Forrest tried to interrupt with an objection, but her husband kept on talking. “I've been hearing it over and over all morning, that clunk. I've been thinking, How could it come to this? I'm a hard-working man. I expect the people I employ to be hard working as well. But I never expected my wife to go about shoving anyone to the ground, causing an injury.”
“Francis Forrest!” said his wife.
He put up a hand to silence her. “You hush now,” he said. “I don't know how we'll deal with all those others in the lockups back there, but I won't be pressing charges against a little girl.”
“But, Francis –”
“I'm the man in this family and I make the decisions,” he said. “You can let her go, lieutenant. If I were her father, she'd feel the leather tonight for messing about where she'd no business to be.” He sent a meaningful look at Viola. “But I won't send her to jail.”
Relieved as I was, I could not help but have some slight discomfort at being saved by the very man who had caused us all to be here.
“I guess we won't be hauling any of your milk this evening, Goodhand,” he continued, to Alfred. “What we took over last night has gone to waste. Same goes for the McCoys and the Deegans.”
Alfred had been standing quietly beside Sergeant Sherman. As we heard Mr. Forrest's announcement, I saw him wince, but as though he knew it was coming.
“So much milk,” he said.
“Can't use it. Won't buy it,” said Mr. Forrest abruptly. “This kind of trouble runs deep. You see that, little lady?” He was addressing me. “Your lunatic associates have put your generous hosts out of business. Now whose side are you on?”
I leaned against Viola, not wanting to think, but dizzy with thoughts nonetheless. Would I have to choose a side? What if the Goodhands pitched us out because I'd lost Darling? Their horse, their cart, and now their biggest milk customer. And they'd done nothing wrong! But Mrs. Rattle had not intended to do wrong, either. She was struggling to do right, for everyone. For all the women in the country!
“You just think about it,” said Mr. Forrest. He took his spluttering wife away.
The lieutenant asked Viola to leave our names and address with Sergeant Sherman.
Misses Viola and Mable Riley, she wrote. Goodhand Farm.
“We've become a burden to your family, Alfred,” she sighed. “Did you imagine when you met us at the train station in August that you would be collecting Mable from police custody only a few months later?”
Alfred chuckled. “I'm grateful for the excitement,” he said.
Then he winked at her and in that wink flashed a thousand lights. I knew at once what I had not known a moment before. Alfred had not moved except for the flicker of an eyelid, but that wink might have been the crashing of cymbals or the slamming of a heavy door, so suddenly did it wake me from my slumber of ignorance. Alfred was in love with my sister!
I quickly turned to see her and, yes! She loves him back! It was written upon her features as clear as these words upon the page. I had not known her face could look so soft, her eyes so filled with stars, yet here she was.
The revelation took but an instant not a hundredth of the time it takes to report and only I was any wiser, for they paid no heed to me or to my discovery as Viola completed the address in her schoolmarm script.
Alfred shook the sergeant's hand and led me out to the street.
I was grateful to Baron for his rhythmic trot going home. Despite the hurly-burly within my mind, the rocking of the buggy lulled me off to sleep and let me finally rest. My last thought was that Viola loves Alfred.
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15
Sure enough, no milk was hauled to Bright Creek last evening or this. Alfred missed supper to do all the milking himself because Mr. Goodhand refused to do it.
“I didn't raise twenty cows to pour their milk into the ground,” he said.
Mr. Goodhand will not speak to me. Indeed, it was through Viola that I was told of my punishment. I am to spend each evening making butter until my arms drop off. (It is not the churning that I object to or the straining. It is the endless washing of butter in great quantity that is so wearisome.) I must make no hint of complaint, says Viola, as Mrs. Goodhand and Mrs. Campbell will be churning as well.
I went to school to-day, of course. I was greeted by a crowd of curious scholars. Tommy flung an arm about my shoulder in his relief to see me, and the others were most intrigued to hear of yesterday's adventures. I have learned, however, to hold my tongue concerning matters of importance. Viola canceled the spelling bee and made us write an essay instead, on the topic of “Do unto Others As You Would Have Them Do unto You.”
Tommy walked most of the way home with Elizabeth and me. Elizabeth pretended not to notice, but Tommy's left arm was only a hair's breadth from my right, all the way until the Deegan turnoff. The backs of our hands were often touching, though we did not look at each other. He has a most engaging smile, and his eyes, behind those spectacles, are a beguiling dark blue. I am very fond of this boy it's as plain as that.
Alfred would have driven to the Groveland Cheese House to-day, but after much discussion with his father, has decided to wait until Monday. They hope not to be forced into seeking new customers; they hope there will be a swift ending to the story at Bright Creek. (Is there ever an ending to any story? I wonder. Except for birth and death, of course, the beginning or ending of a tale depends only upon where the teller decides to make it.)
I laid the table for supper while Mrs. Goodhand (over)boiled the cabbage and (scorch) fried the sausages. Mr. Goodhand was in his chair beside the stove earlier than usual, because of leaving Alfred to the milking. I thought to seize the opportunity that my mother would urge me to take.
“Mr. Goodhand? Mrs. Goodhand? I would like …” Mr. Goodhand rustled the newspaper, while his wife stared glumly toward my knees.
I cleared the nerves from my throat and began again.
“I realize that I have caused trouble far beyond your deserving, and I wish to apologize with all my heart and soul.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Goodhand.
“Your horse and wagon, your good name, and now your farm profits, all ruined because of me!”
“Is there something wrong with Darling that I don't know about?” barked Mr. Goodhand.
“Why, no, Sir, except that I left her –”
“Then I'd say you're getting a bit big for your britches, young lady. None of this factory mess has anything to do with you. Francis Forrest was a nasty brute before you came along, and I'll wager your Mrs. Rattle was, too. You may like to think you're right in there, in the heart of the matter, but the fact is you're a little girl no one pays mind to. Your only crime is outspokenness where it's not asked for. So you needn't spout whimsy about your heart and soul because poetry won't make anybody pay to make cheese out of my milk. When you've solved that problem, you let me know.” He folded the newspaper.
“Is supper ready yet, missus?” he asked his wife.
“Nearly on,” she said, still not looking at me.
During the meal I felt as though I'd been spanked. But the more I considered, the better I realized it was true. The Forrests and the ladies would have butted heads whether I'd been there or gone back to school. The battle had been fought, but the real problem had not yet been solved. And Mable Riley had yet to make her mark. I did not like to admit how little my part had mattered in the outcome.
This also meant that I was no more responsible for the surplus milk than Viola was. It did not seem wise, however, to point out that my penalty of making heroic measures of butter was too high a price to pay for truancy.
After washing up, I sat on a stool next to Mr. Goodhand with my knees wrapped around the extra churn (borrowed from Roy's mother), rolling the handle back and forth while we listened to the news of the day.
“BAD NEWS AT BRIGHT CREEK
This week's trouble at the Bright Creek Cheese Company near Se
llerton escalated yesterday with a violent incident and police intervention. Dissatisfied labourers have been marching outside in protest since Tuesday instead of manning the cheese vats within.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” asked Mr. Goodhand. “‘Manning’ the cheese vats? Every one of them is a girl.
“After two days of halted cheese production, factory owner Mr. Francis Forrest called for uniformed assistance.
‘However I tried, the workers would not listen to reason,’ reported Mr. Forrest from the Perth County Courthouse last evening. ‘I tried to discover an equitable solution, but my efforts were ignored by the ringleader, Mrs. Cora Rattle.’”
“That's not true!” I cried. “He refused to speak with her!”
“Mrs. Rattle and eleven other women were rounded up by the police after a confrontation between the sharp-tongued suffragist and the factory owner's wife. Mrs. Forrest was assaulted in the course of the argument, leading officers to make their move.
Mrs. Rattle and her cohorts are being held a second night in the county jail and will be released tomorrow with warnings from Judge Hinks. They are to return to work on Monday or lose their positions. The factory will recommence production then.”
“Aha!” shouted Alfred. “I saved a trip to Groveland today, and Sunday's milk will still be good on Monday, with this chill. We're set, Dad. It'll all work out.”
“Mrs. Rattle's employ was terminated three weeks ago before the disturbance began. She will not return to Bright Creek.”
“What do you suppose Mrs. Rattle will do now?” I wondered.
“She'll go and stir up trouble elsewhere,” said Mr. Goodhand.
“You think she'll move away?” I asked wistfully, knowing the answer already.
“She will not be welcome in this community,” said Mrs. Goodhand. “Not that she was welcome before, but some of us tried.”
I thought with a twinge of guilt of her corn bread and of Mrs. Rattle's fat and happy ducks….
Mable Riley Page 14