“I toured a portion of the factory a few days ago with Mr. Galloway and his daughter, Augusta,” I said, attempting to capture a glimpse of the paint shop through the glass window. Mr. Kaestner’s shoulder blocked my view.
“The Galloways, they are your friends?”
The timbre of his voice caused me to look away from the door and meet his eyes. There was little doubt he’d been taken aback by this latest revelation. And it didn’t appear the news pleased him. “Augusta Galloway was my father’s art student for several months.”
“So that is why Mr. Galloway has given you this job. It is not because you are qualified or even suited to the work. You are here because Miss Galloway is your friend.”
I wanted to argue that he had jumped to an incorrect assumption—at least partially incorrect. But from the set of his jaw, I didn’t think he’d tolerate any disagreement. I held my breath and wondered if he would permit me inside the paint shop or order me off the premises. My insides churned with a desire to scream Open that door and let me in. Instead, I clenched my lower lip between my teeth and waited. When Mr. Kaestner finally turned the knob and pushed open the door, I released my lip. The metallic taste on my tongue signaled I’d drawn blood. I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket and silently chastised myself.
When we finally entered the painting room at the rear of the building, my pulse quickened. The scent of paint and varnish hung in the room like a welcoming friend.
There were prancing horses, bucking horses, standing horses, and several other animals in differing poses that were partially hidden from view. A beautiful swan chariot awaited paint, and I hoped I would be permitted to work on it. I envisioned the beauty I could add if given the opportunity. Mr. Kaestner placed his index finger and thumb inside his mouth and somehow produced a shrill whistle.
A tall man with a receding hairline popped up from between a rack of the carousel horses and waved. “Be right there!” he shouted. Moments later he loped toward us with a long-legged stride. “Sorry to keep you waitin’, Josef. Needed to take care of my brush. Don’t want paint dryin’ in the bristles.” He gave me a quick nod of acknowledgment before continuing. “Don’t tell me we got more problems.”
This man was obviously astute at reading Mr. Kaestner’s moods.
Mr. Kaestner grunted. “This is your new painter.” He gave a quick tip of his head in my direction. “Henry, meet Miss Carrington Brouwer. Miss Brouwer, this is Henry Tobarth. Mr. Tobarth supervises the paint shop. Your work he will assign, and then he will tell me if it measures up. If your work does not his approval get, then you must move to the other room, sand down the animal, and start over.”
Although I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant to sand down and start over, I knew I could do it. But from the look on Mr. Tobarth’s face, he didn’t possess that same confidence. He appeared either confused or disgusted; I wasn’t certain which. His smile had disappeared, and his forehead was lined with more creases than a pleated ruffle.
“Whoa! Hold up here. I ain’t so sure I understand.” Mr. Tobarth shifted his weight to his right leg and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “Ain’t no women workin’ in here.”
“There is one woman now. Mr. Galloway hired Miss Brouwer. A friend of the family, she is.”
Although I’d thought it impossible, the creases in Mr. Tobarth’s forehead deepened. “A woman and unskilled.” I couldn’t tell if his shoulders or his mouth drooped more—I think it was a tie.
“Not unskilled. I have—”
Mr. Kaestner held up his hand and pierced me with a sharp look. “You are right. A woman she is, and unskilled she is. You must instruct her like any other untrained painter. For this, I am sorry, Henry. We had agreed to hire a skilled painter.”
Mr. Tobarth’s earlier finger-combing had resulted in strands of hair sticking up like a rooster’s comb. His eyes bulged as he glanced back and forth between Mr. Kaestner and me. Then the tiniest of smiles began to form at the corners of his mouth. “This is some kind of joke, ain’t it?”
“Nein, Henry. I had no choice. Miss Brouwer is a friend of Mr. Galloway’s daughter, and he has hired her to work as a painter.”
My chest tightened. Mr. Kaestner’s response was laden with disgust, and the frustration in Mr. Tobarth’s eyes was pitiable. Neither one seemed to care that I was present for this discussion of dread and dismay.
“But we’ve turned away three men because they was unskilled. Now you’re tellin’ me I gotta teach an unskilled wo-wo-lady?” He shook his head. “This don’t make no sense.” He pointed a thumb toward the back of the shop. “The men ain’t gonna be happy with this, neither.”
Mr. Kaestner gave a nod. “The men, they do not run this place. Do your best to train her. Mr. Galloway wants her to become a good painter.”
“And I wanted someone who was already a good painter,” Mr. Tobarth mumbled as Mr. Kaestner turned and walked off. “Come on, Miss Brewer.”
“Brouwer. Carrington Brouwer,” I said, doing a quickstep to keep up with his long-legged stride. “And I do have some experience, Mr. Tobarth.”
He stopped in his tracks. “How come you didn’t say so?”
“I did. But Mr. Kaestner chose to discount my abilities. I hope you won’t do the same.” Fearing he might not pay heed, I clicked off my talents like beads on an abacus. Unfortunately, when I finished, Mr. Tobarth didn’t appear any more impressed than Mr. Kaestner had.
He didn’t comment at all. His lips twisted into a halfhearted smile as he pointed toward the unpainted carousel horses. “You’ll start over here in the primer area.” We passed by several men who stopped painting and stared at me.
Mr. Tobarth waved in their direction. “Get back to work. We’re behind on orders as it is. Ain’t none of you got time to be standin’ around gawkin’.” The older man’s command was all it took to steer the workers back to their painting.
I followed behind him and came to a halt when he pointed to a space that I guessed would be my work area. “Is there someplace I can store my cloak and personal belongings?” I held up my reticule, a bag containing the lunch Frances had packed for me, and my sketch pad.
“The men toss their coats wherever they find a nearby free space— same with their lunch.” He glanced around the area with a befuddled look on his face.
“I’ll just put them over here,” I said. He appeared grateful to be relieved of the problem.
Over the next half hour Mr. Tobarth explained my duties: I would go into the adjacent room and begin with the first rack of four horses. I was to wipe them down with a clean, dry cloth until every one of them was free of even the tiniest speck of sawdust.
“They need to be smooth as a baby’s bott—” He stopped abruptly. A stain of crimson splotched his cheekbones, and he looked away. “Get ’em good and smooth—like glass.” I didn’t think it was possible for wood to feel as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and I’d touched glass that wasn’t particularly smooth, but I assured Mr. Tobarth I would make him proud.
“When you have all of them clear of sawdust, we move the rack in here, and you begin with the first coat of primer. You got to use long, steady strokes, and whatever you do, remember you got to apply all the paint with the grain of the wood.” He reminded me about the grain of the wood at least three times.
“While those dry, you go back to the other room and begin wipin’ down the next rack of horses. And so it goes. The rack gets moved back and forth. Wipe, paint, wipe, paint. The primer will help you see the imperfections in the wood. Each horse has to get at least two coats of primer. Dependin’ on the carver and the wood, some will need to be sanded and primed four or five times. After that, the horse gets its primary color.”
“So I must do the sanding, also?”
“Until you learn how we complete the paintin’ process and understand how smooth the wood has got to be, you’re gonna be doing your share of sanding. Later, if you’re still here, you won’t have to do the sanding.”
From the sound of his voice, I knew he didn’t expect me to be here long enough to meet that requirement. “Do I apply the primary color, too?” I didn’t think I’d ever be excited about such a dull possibility, but I hoped to move ahead as quickly as possible. I didn’t tell Mr. Tobarth, but I wanted to be working alongside him painting all of the beautifully carved detailing—as well as adding a few embellishments of my own.
He wagged his head. “That’ll come later, if . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
While he stood watch over my ability to wield a dustrag, I began wiping down the first horse. Mr. Tobarth said these were outside-row horses, so they were more ornate than some of the others I’d be working on later in the day.
“The inside rows of horses ain’t so fancy,” he explained.
When I’d completed wiping one side to my satisfaction, I walked around the horse and studied the animal for a moment. “Come look, Mr. Tobarth. The carving isn’t completed on this horse.”
In two long strides he was beside me. He looked at the horse; then he frowned at me. “It’s finished.”
“No,” I said. “Look at the other side. He forgot to carve the flowers and the—”
“We only do the intricate carvin’ on the side that faces the outside— that’s what we call the romance side. We paint the inner side of the horse to match the carvin’ on the romance side. Ain’t no need to worry yourself with that. The carvers know what they’re doin’. Just wipe and prime.”
I didn’t recall if the carousel horse I’d ridden so many years ago had been carved on both sides or only one. I wanted to believe it had been as beautiful on one side as the other, but it probably hadn’t. The one-sided process was more expedient, but it somehow seemed like cheating—like painting a bowl of fruit and leaving out the oranges or the grapes. Later in the morning, when I was satisfied the horses had been wiped clean of all possible sawdust, I signaled Mr. Tobarth.
He returned to my side and slowly circled the rack while sliding his palm over the bodies and down the sleek legs. He used a clean cloth and swabbed between the thin ridges of carved hair that created the horses’ manes. When he finished the task, he grunted approval, helped me move the rack into the other room, and handed me a container of milk paint to prime the horses.
A pungent odor filled my nostrils, and I tilted my head away from the bucket. “It smells sour.”
Mr. Tobarth bent his head over the open bucket. For a moment I thought he might stick his nose inside. I pictured him with the milky white substance covering his face. He’d look like a circus clown or perhaps resemble one of the mimes I’d seen perform in Paris.
He raised his head and touched his index finger to his nose. “You got a good sense of smell, Miss Brewer. The paint is sour. I’ll get a fresh bucket.”
“BrOUWer.” He looked at me as though I’d lost my senses. “My name is Brouwer, not Brewer,” I explained.
“Brouwer, Brewer,” he mumbled. He shook his head and walked off.
A few minutes later he returned and hung a fresh bucket of primer on a thick spindle attached to the rack. “Go ahead and start paintin’,” he said, thrusting a wide-bristled paintbrush into my hand. “Don’t forget to keep with the grain of the wood. And no runs,” he cautioned before heading off. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”
From my vantage point, I could see two other men in the paint shop. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as if one was using glossy black paint on his horse while the other was stippling a buff-colored horse with charcoal gray. I stared in their direction several times, but whenever I caught one of them looking at me, he immediately turned away. I wondered how long they had been required to clean and prime horses before moving on to their current jobs. Even more, I wondered if Mr. Tobarth would introduce me to them. Probably not before our lunch break, especially since both Mr. Kaestner and Mr. Tobarth were concerned about getting the orders completed.
I had finished the first coat of primer on two of the horses when Mr. Tobarth approached and told me I’d need to work faster. “We’ll need the swan chariot for this carousel.” He pointed to the large double-seated chariot that had been moved into the wiping room. “Once you’ve completed these horses, set them aside to dry and begin wiping down the chariot.”
“Before the other rack of horses?”
“Yup, before the other rack of horses.” He blew out a long sigh that caused his chest to collapse like a deflated balloon. Mr. Tobarth’s irritation was, quite obviously, complete.
I dipped my brush in the primer and offered a silent thank-you when I heard the shuffle of his retreating footsteps. I hadn’t completed priming the rack of horses when a loud buzzer over the door sounded to announce the noonday break. I waited to see where the men would settle with their lunches and then picked up my sack and approached them. When they saw me walking toward them, they scattered like mice fleeing a sinking ship.
CHAPTER
8
Work on the chariot hadn’t gone quickly. I finally resorted to a clean paintbrush to remove the final sawdust from the intricate carving that decorated the show side of the massive piece. Mr. Tobarth still hadn’t declared it ready for primer when the final buzzer over the door sounded. I didn’t need to be told it was the end of the workday. My arms and shoulders ached, and a dull, throbbing pain hammered my low back. The constant bending and stooping had taken its toll. Mr. Tobarth had offered me a stool, which I’d used for a portion of the day, but reaching overhead had created a pain of its own.
I pressed my palms against my lower spine and arched my back before removing my canvas work apron and donning my cape.
Mr. Tobarth watched from a distance, and when I neared the door, he said, “You’ll get used to it, if you last long enough.” His tone carried no malice, but I was certain he was watching for my reaction.
I gave a nod. “I’ll see you in the morning.” I don’t know if that was the response he expected—or wanted. I stifled my desire to ask if I’d performed as well as other workers on their first day of wiping and priming. Mostly because I was afraid of the answer. I trudged toward the factory exit, feeling the men’s hard stares boring into me. I didn’t look up, for I feared seeing anger in their eyes. One day I would have to face those fears, but this wasn’t the day. First I must summon some courage.
Eager for a friendly face, I picked up my pace. The sun had made a nearly full descent, and the early evening sky was filled with shades of burnt orange and gray when I arrived at the boardinghouse. Mrs. Wilson bustled from the kitchen with a smile that wrapped from ear to ear. Her gray hair was pinned in a lopsided bun that made her all the more endearing.
“Your trunks arrived and they’re safely in your room.” She tipped her head closer, and the bun slipped another notch. “Ralph was home for the noonday meal, and he helped the carriage driver carry them upstairs. I don’t think he was any too happy when he discovered you’d taken a room on the third floor.” I had no idea who Ralph was, but he and Thomas were probably suffering with back pain, too. “I imagine you want to freshen up before supper. We’ll eat in half an hour.” She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a key. “You’ll need this to get into your room.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll be back down in half an hour.”
“In case you were wondering, Mr. Galloway sent payment for your rent with his driver.” Without missing a beat, she continued. “Hope you like pork chops.”
The selection wasn’t my favorite, but thankfully she didn’t wait for a response. I climbed both flights of stairs and was certain Thomas and Ralph had been less than pleased to carry my belongings all the way to the third floor. After washing up, I surveyed the trunks. There wouldn’t be time to make much progress with them before supper. And the thought of leaning over them and removing the myriad items made my back ache all the more. I’d rest for the short time remaining before supper and unpack this evening.
Instead of taking time to unlace and take off my sho
es, I removed an old piece of newspaper from one of the wardrobe drawers and spread it at the foot of the bed. Careful to keep my shoes on the paper, I eased against the pillow.
I remember thinking the mattress was quite comfortable, but that was the last thing I recalled before being startled awake by rapping at my door. “Miss Brouwer. You in there, Miss Brouwer? We’re waiting supper on you.”
Trying to clear my foggy brain, I forced myself upright. A man was shouting my name. I forced my caked lips apart. “I’m in here.” I croaked the response through a sleep-filtered haze. Outside, darkness had descended.
“Miss Brouwer? The pork chops are getting cold. You coming?”
Pork chops. I was at the boardinghouse. “I’ll be right there,” I called to the unknown man on the other side of the door. I heard muffled footsteps retreat down the hallway. I couldn’t take time to check my appearance. No telling how long the others had been waiting.
Patting my hair, I rushed down the stairs. The smell of fried pork and sauerkraut assailed me as I hurried along the hallway and entered the dining room. Struck dumb, I stood inside the doorframe with my mouth gaping open and my thoughts spinning like a whirlpool. My breath caught in my throat.
“Good evening, Miss Brouwer.”
The man didn’t appear surprised by my entrance, though he didn’t appear pleased, either. I nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Kaestner.” I wanted to run screaming from the room. Of all the boardinghouses in The Bottoms, why was Mr. Kaestner renting a room in this one? Surely with his position as manager of the factory, he could afford finer accommodations. Before I could take stock of the situation, Mrs. Wilson waved me into the chair opposite Mr. Kaestner.
The older woman took obvious pleasure in introducing me to Ralph Lundgren. Not only was he a fellow boarder, but Mr. Lundgren had been responsible for awakening me from my nap. He was also credited with helping Thomas lug my trunks up the two flights of stairs. I thanked him profusely for his acts of kindness; he waved off my words of appreciation as a shade of beet red stole across his cheeks. I’d obviously embarrassed the kind man.
The Carousel Painter Page 8