Belles on Their Toes

by Frank B. Gilbreth

  Now, after knocking, he asked:

  “All right if I come in, Anne?” He stirred the castor oil harder and louder than ever.

  “I guess so,” Anne conceded.

  “Ain’t nobody here,” said Ernestine, “but us chicken poxers.”

  Tom entered and bowed low to Ernestine, the Princess.

  “Here you are, Your Highness,” he said. “I’ve brung you a present from the Grand Doochess.”

  He held out the glass.

  “Anne first,” Ernestine protested. “She’s the oldest. Besides, you’ve probably spiked my drink.”

  “Where’d you learn talk like that?” said Tom, genuinely shocked. “I’m going to tell your Mother on you when she gets home.”

  “Here, hand me that glass and for goodness’ sake be quiet, both of you,” said Anne.

  “Oh, what’s the use,” Ernestine wailed. “All right, give it to me.”

  Having reached the decision, she grabbed the glass before her willpower deserted her, and drained it.

  “Good girl, Ernie,” Tom beamed. “You’re in the Club. How was it?”

  Remembering she was supposed to set a good example, she smiled bravely.

  “Delicious,” she gulped. “Positively delicious.”

  “See what I tole you?” Tom said. “The orange juice cuts the taste.”

  “That’s right,” Ernestine lied. “Positively delicious.”

  “Do you want some more?” Tom asked hopefully. “I wouldn’t mind fixing you another glass.”

  “No,” Ernestine shouted. “I mean, no thank you. It was mighty good, but that was plenty.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” said Tom, as he departed for the kitchen to mix Anne’s dose.

  “I never had so much castor oil in my life,” Ernestine whispered to Anne. “The old idiot must think I’m as irregular as a French verb.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Anne pleaded, “please keep quiet until I’ve had mine. My heart bleeds for you, but please hold your oily tongue.”

  Anne, Martha, and finally Frank all faced up to their responsibilities by taking their medicine and managing to smack their lips and say it was good. But when Tom came to Bill the era of cooperation ended.

  In the first place, Bill wouldn’t wake up, and the more Tom shook him, the louder he snored.

  “I never seen such a sound sleeper,” said Tom, deciding it was time for psychology. “Well, if I can’t wake him for his castor oil, I’d better do the next best thing.”

  Bill’s snores shook the bedroom.

  “Does anyone,” said Tom, “know where the hot water bag is?”

  Bill thought he knew what that meant. He rolled over and opened an eye.

  “Where am I?” he asked sleepily. “What time is it?”

  “It’s time,” said Tom, shoving a glass in Bill’s face, “to drink this.”

  “What is it?” Bill asked, stalling as long as possible.

  “You know what it is,” hollered Tom, whose patience was becoming exhausted. “Now swalley it.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “How do you know you don’t like it, when you ain’t tasted it?”

  “I’ve tasted it before. It tastes nasty.”

  “Look,” Tom said deliberately. “Ast Anne. Ast Ernestine. Ast Martha. Ast Frank. It’s good. It’s delicious.”

  “I know them. They’re just setting good examples.”

  Tom now played his hole card.

  “Look,” he purred, “I’ve got another glass just like this one, out in the hall. If you be a good boy and drink this, I’ll drink that—just to show you how good it is.”

  By now all of the younger boys were frankly awake, and watching. Bill considered the offer carefully.

  “How do I know,” he asked suspiciously, “that there’s castor oil in the other glass?”

  “You can take my word for it, can’t you?” Tom was shouting again.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Call me a liar, then,” said Tom. “Call me a liar.”

  He went to the hall and came back holding a glass in each hand.

  “Take your choice. If that ain’t fair, I don’t know what is.”

  “When I take mine, will you drink a glass with me?” Fred asked.

  “Sure,” said Tom. “It’s delicious. Ast Anne.”

  “How about me?” Dan wanted to know.

  “Certainly.”

  “And me?” said Jack.

  “Me, too,” Lillian shouted from the girls’ ward.

  “Everybody,” Tom agreed. “All hands and the cook.”

  Bill examined the glasses closely, and the girls came in to watch him make his choice. The glasses contained the same amount of orange juice, but there was one very obvious difference. On the surface of the juice in one glass were only a few bubbles of oil. On the surface of the other floated almost a half-inch of solid oil.

  “I’ll take this one,” said Bill, pointing to the glass with a few bubbles.

  “You’re sure you want that one?” Tom asked innocently. “I don’t see no difference.”

  “Don’t try to wiggle out of it,” said Bill. “That’s the one I want.”

  He was about to take the glass, when he looked up and saw Ernestine just barely shake her head.

  “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?” said Tom, obviously pleased with the way things were going.

  “Okay,” said Bill, “you talked me into it. I’ll change my mind.”

  He grabbed the glass with all the oil on top.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Tom protested, and there was genuine terror in his voice. “You don’t want that one. If you look clost, you can see it’s loaded with oil. Here’s the one you want.”

  But it was too late. Bill drank orange juice and salad oil.

  “Delicious,” he grinned. “Positively delicious.”

  Tom looked with distaste at the glass he was holding. He managed a smile, but it was a weak one.

  “Good boy, Bill,” he muttered finally.

  “Am I in the Club for drinking my medicine, Tom?”

  “I guess so.”

  “For a thousand years and four days?”

  Tom nodded glumly.

  “Are you going to drink yours now, Tom?”

  He nodded again.

  “And are you going to drink a glass with Lillian, Fred, Dan, Jack, Bob and Jane, like you promised?”

  Tom looked around him. The girls were biting their lips to keep from laughing. Frank had buried his head in his pillow.

  “Drink it,” said Bill.

  “It’s delicious,” said Ernestine. “Ast Anne.”

  If looks could have killed, the Princess’s body would have been in an advanced stage of rigor mortis.

  “Ast Ernestine,” said Martha.

  “Ast Martha,” said Frank.

  “Ast Frank,” said Bill.

  “I don’t know why I work here,” Tom shook his head dully. “Seventeen years with the family, and when I start to get a little old they try to poison me. A hundret and twenty million people in the country, and I got to be the one who works here.”

  “No,” said Anne. “Don’t drink it, Tom. It was only a joke, and not a very good one, I guess. We’re sorry, Tom.”

  Tom stepped back with dignity, favored us with a withering glance, and drained his glass. Then he stalked out of the room, descended to the kitchen, and returned with the bottle of castor oil and a spoon. He handed them to Ernestine, and he didn’t forget to bow.

  “Here, Doochess,” he said. “I know who put him up to it. I seen that guilty look. I ain’t deef, you know. I ain’t blind. Now you get the rest of them to take their medicine, like the doctor said.”

  He left the room again, only this time he backed out, bowing, curtsying, and grasping his forelock.

  Ernestine tried to hand the bottle to Anne, but Anne wouldn’t take it.

  “It’s your responsibility,” Ernestine said. “You’re the oldest.”

  “Tom’s
right,” Anne replied.” “I seen that guilty look too, Doochess, so it’s up to you. I delegate the responsibility.”

  4. Completely Dead

  MARTHA WAS RED HAIRED, freckled, and oblivious to the fact that within the last year she had grown tall, slender, and curvy—very curvy. The realization was to come in time—about the time that the freckles, with considerable prompting from Martha, started to disappear.

  But for the moment she preferred blue serge bloomers to skirts, middie blouses to sweaters, and bicycles to rumble seats.

  Martha was casual, easy going, steady, and a favorite with everybody. Efficiency came to her naturally, partly because of her temperament, partly because she was at the age when the mere mention of work had a depressing effect. If possible, work was to be avoided altogether. If not, it was to be disposed of as rapidly as possible, and with a minimum of fatigue. Hence, efficiency.

  She had just finished her sophomore year in high school, during which she had broken Anne’s and Ernestine’s previous records by carrying home her own books less than a dozen times. She accepted male carriers matter-of-factly, without attributing their attention to anything going on under her very nose. Our house was almost two miles from Montclair High School, and Anne and Ernestine used to say that Martha selected her gentlemen friends solely on their ability to carry heavy weights for long distances.

  We recovered from chicken pox in a comparatively short time, and Martha took over the job of supervising the packing for Nantucket. She had Frank and Bill bring three trunks from the attic to the upstairs hall. We carried our clothes to her, and she made sure we had everything we needed before she let us put them in the trunks. Martha herself was established in a comfortable chair, and didn’t have to move.

  To simplify the matter of logistics, Martha had drawn up a number of check-off lists, from which she seemed to derive more than her share of satisfaction. Martha usually was on the receiving end of orders from Anne and Ernestine, and it was a special pleasure for her to have an opportunity to boss them now.

  “Name!” she began by asking Anne, when Anne appeared in the hall with a pile of her own clothes. “Speak out loudly so I can hear you.”

  “My cow,” Anne replied. “It’s all right to be efficient, but don’t carry it too far.”

  “Do you,” said Martha, offering to hand her the check-off lists, “want to supervise the packing?”

  Anne admitted she didn’t.

  “Then be good enough, please, just to answer a few simple questions. Name!”

  “Paavo Nurmi, the Flying Finn,” Anne told her. “Age, eighteen. Hobbies, taking orders and impudence from a mere slip of a girl.”

  “Speak out loudly so I can hear you,” Martha said, thumbing through her papers and coming up with Anne’s check-off sheet.

  “Oh, what’s the use,” Anne snorted. And then, shouting, answered: “Anne.”

  “Good,” Martha beamed. “Dresses?”

  “Six.”

  Martha made a note of it. “Bathing suit?”

  “Sure does, Mr. Bones. Suits just fine.”

  “Speak out loudly so I can hear you.”

  “One,” Anne hollered. “You’re so efficient, I’ll bet you’re rocking with the grain of the wood.”

  After running through the complete list, all the way from hair-pins to shoe trees, Martha directed Anne where to stow her clothes. Then the rest of us, by ages, stepped up, gave our names, and went through the same routine.

  Each older child, besides being responsible for himself, was responsible for a younger child. Anne was responsible for Jane, Ernestine for Jack, Martha for Bob, and Frank for Dan. This applied not only to packing clothes, but any family project or emergency. In the event of fire, or when crossing a street, or when it came to writing up the daily jobs on the process charts, the older ones were supposed to help their particular charges. Bill, Lillian, and Fred were in the intermediate group—old enough to look out for themselves, but not old enough to help anyone else.

  Once the clothes were packed, together with sheets, blankets, tools, dolls, games, scrapbooks, crystal detectors and headphones, stamp collections, free samples and other articles that couldn’t possibly be left behind, we devoted our attention to Departure Day.

  Martha, meanwhile, had taken over the budget. Martha was not ungenerous with her own money, although it didn’t exactly flow through her fingers. But when it came to handling Mother’s money, her fingers had to be pried apart and twisted. It was a waste of time to tell Martha that you can’t take it with you. She had long since made up her mind that, if that were the case, no sensible person would even dream of going.

  She drew up requisition slips that we had to fill out in triplicate to buy anything for the house or to get our weekly allowances. We agreed with Bill that it seemed a lot of trouble to go to for fifteen cents a week.

  To get to Nantucket, we planned to take a Lackawanna train from Montclair to Hoboken, a ferry from Hoboken to New York, a night boat from New York to New Bedford, Massachusetts, and the Nantucket boat from New Bedford to our destination. We knew that the transferring, with all our suitcases and the younger children, was going to be a job. But the trip on the night boat was cheaper than going to New Bedford by train.

  Martha, who had been duly identified by Anne at the bank, cashed a check and went to New York to pick up the reservations. She was appalled and unnerved when the man at the ticket office on the dock told her the total cost.

  “There must be some mistake,” she told him. “It’s Nantucket we’re going to, not Paris, France. Would you mind adding it up again?”

  The man added again, and then Martha checked him—twice. When she finally became convinced that there was no mistake, she decided to turn back two of the five staterooms Mother had reserved, and to exchange two of the full-fare tickets for half fares.

  When she returned from the city, Martha, bristling with indignation, told Ernestine and Anne about the prices. She also explained about turning in the staterooms and exchanging the tickets.

  “So I saved better than twenty dollars,” she concluded. “There’ll have to be four of us in each of two staterooms, and three in the other.”

  “Good night,” said Anne, “even three persons in one of those staterooms is a slum. But I guess we’ll manage somehow.”

  “Of course we will,” Martha agreed. “And think of saving …”

  “Wait a minute,” Anne interrupted. “You’ve forgotten all about Tom. Where’s he going to sleep?”

  “And if you try to tell us he can sleep in one of our state rooms,” Ernestine put in, “all I can say is that’s carrying economy a little too far.”

  “It certainly is,” Anne agreed. “The very idea!”

  “I’ll scrub floors,” Ernestine announced dramatically. “I’ll clean out the rest rooms in the Hudson Tubes. But I will not …”

  “Neither will I,” said Anne.

  “I didn’t forget about him,” Martha insisted. “And for cat’s sake put down those scrub brushes and get up off your hands and knees.”

  “Where’s he going to sleep then?” Anne asked.

  “Well,” said Martha, “he was complaining just the other day about how he never slept a wink on the way to Nantucket. So if he doesn’t sleep anyway, what’s the use of throwing away perfectly good money?”

  “You can’t do that to him,” Anne protested. “You go right back to New York and get another stateroom.”

  “It’s all right,” Martha insisted. “I already told him about it.”

  “Poor Tom,” Anne sympathized. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, you know Tom. He grumbled about a hundred and twenty million people in the country, and about how Lincoln freed all the slaves but one. But he didn’t really object.”

  “Poor Tom!” Anne repeated. “My cow.”

  “I don’t know why he puts up with us,” Ernestine agreed.

  “Look,” said Martha, fishing angrily in her pocket for the checkbook. “Do either of you
want to take over the budget? I ask you, do you?”

  “I guess it wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” Anne hastily assured her.

  “And you did,” Ernestine pointed out, “save more than twenty dollars of Mother’s money.”

  “Perfectly good money,” amended Martha, who obviously considered all currency of the realm to be eminently satisfactory. “And I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t said he didn’t sleep.”

  “It’s all right, I guess,” said Anne, “but how about those two half fares?”

  “What about them?” Martha demanded belligerently, fishing for the checkbook again.

  “Put that thing away,” Anne told her. “I’m in charge here, and I’m not going to have checkbooks, checkoff sheets, manifests, or bills of lading waved in my face every time I open my mouth.”

  “Frank might possibly be able to get away with a half-fare ticket, but not you,” Ernestine said.

  “I’d like to know why not,” Martha replied indignantly. “I’m a little tall, I admit. But I certainly can bend my knees when I go up the gangplank.”

  “It’s not just your being tall,” Ernestine said significantly.

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “For goodnesssake,” said Anne, looking. “Just look at yourself.

  Martha glanced down and shrugged. “Oh, that,” she said. “My gosh, nobody pays any attention to things like that.”

  OUR TRAIN FOR HOBOKEN left in the early afternoon. We didn’t want to have to pay for more than one taxicab, so five of the older children, with Ernestine in charge, walked from the house to the station. Anne and Tom, with the five youngest children and all of our suitcases, waited at the house for a taxi.