Orphan at My Door

by Jean Little

  I’ve heard Grandpa Cope describe a horse as “sound in wind and limb.” The lady spoke about this Mary Anna in the very same tone of voice.

  The girl had her head ducked down so far we could just see the top of her hat. She mumbled something without raising her head.

  “Look at me when you speak, child,” Father said, again in a sharp voice. He doesn’t like children to hang their heads down as though they are ashamed of themselves. Even so, he hardly ever speaks to me that way. “What’s your name?”

  She stuck her chin up then. She did not look shy after all. Her eyes seemed to flash with scorn for a moment as she looked from the humiliating label to his face. Then the scorn was gone. Still, she did not smile or look at all friendly.

  “My name is Mary Anna Wilson. I am strong and healthy,” she said in a clear but dead voice. It sounded as though every word had been ironed flat. “I am twelve years of age.”

  I will not have to worry about her poking fun at me. She has pock marks on her face and her eyes are bottle green. What hair I could see was dark brown and as poker straight as mine. My hair is long enough for me to sit on if I bend my head back, but hers had been chopped off just below her ears. My nose is longer than hers but not much. Both of them tip up a bit.

  “Are you a hard worker, Mary Anna?” Father asked her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “If she does not suit your wife, write to us and we will move her,” the woman said. “The smaller girls are tough and wiry, you know. They often work out better than the bigger ones. Would you like a boy?”

  “No, thank you, madam,” Father said, smiling at last. “I have two boys. Two great lads are all our house can hold. But one of your young fellows can hold the horse’s head while I get a few more particulars and give you whatever information you wish. Jump in behind Victoria, Mary. I will only be a minute.”

  A little boy with red hair poking out from under his cap was standing close to Mary Anna. The lady told him to take the bridle. He ran to Bess’s head.

  I kept hold of the reins. I suppose Father thought Bess might be upset by his walking away while a stranger was climbing into the carriage.

  The minute the girl was up the step, she tore off the label and let it drop on the station platform. Before I could see it properly, a breeze swept it away.

  As Father and the lady went into the waiting room for a moment, the boy pushed his cap back and gazed up at Mary Anna. His bright hair hung in his eyes. The eyes themselves were enormous and bluer than blue. Tom’s eyes are blue, but not like that. The boy’s placard was turned back to front so just the blank side showed.

  I cannot write another word or my hand will drop off. Also, Mother called up to blow out my candle. More tomorrow, dear Diary. I know I am breaking off just when things are getting exciting, but you’ll just have to wait.

  Sunday, May 30, Morning, before anyone is up

  There are so many pleasant things you are not allowed to do on the Sabbath, but writing in your diary is not one of them, thank fortune.

  I’ll start in where I left off. The red-haired boy spoke to our Home Girl.

  “You promised Ma you’d take care of me. Now I’ve found you again, why can’t I come with you?” he asked.

  He was speaking in a low voice, afraid of being caught, but every word was clear to me. The only word I missed was a name he called her by — a nickname, I suppose. I turned to look at the girl’s face. It looked frozen stiff and her eyes were like hard, green stones. She stared over his head.

  “Is that your brother?” I asked.

  She did not reply. She did not even glance my way.

  “Jasper, don’t,” she said. “You know I can’t do anything. As soon as I’m old enough, we’ll be together as I promised. You heard Dr. Cope say he does not need a boy.”

  “Will we find Emily Rose too?” he asked in a soft hopeless voice, rubbing a hole in the dirt with his boot toe.

  I heard her catch her breath, but before she could speak, Father was back. He had not been away as long as it would take to buy a sack of flour. He loaded the trunk, took the reins from the boy and tossed him a penny. Then, as he climbed onto the seat, three other wagons pulled up into the space beside the railway station.

  I stared at a tall boy in the first one. He sat next to two people who must have been his parents. He had such curls. They were in a big golden mop around his face. He grinned at me. I hoped they would take Jasper.

  Father shook the reins and Bess began to trot.

  “Goodbye, Sparrow,” the boy called.

  I think he said “Sparrow,” although I am not sure, what with the noise of all the carriage wheels. He sounded so lonely he made me feel like bursting into tears. The girl did not answer him.

  As we pulled out of the station yard, I saw that the person in the second gig was a woman who looked like a scared rabbit. Maybe she thought the children were criminals the way Mother had said. If she did, she was wrong. They looked fine, just tired. I smiled at her but she did not smile back. I didn’t notice who was in the other wagon.

  Father said not a word to either of us. He looked as though something had made him angry. I glanced back as Bess began to trot along, keeping pace with the rest of the traffic crowding the street. The girl’s green eyes were no longer like stone. They were filled with tears. She did not catch my look, I think, for I turned at once to face front again. I could feel my cheeks burn as though I had been spying.

  Since it was market day, the streets were crowded with people and animals. All the dogs in Guelph seemed to be ducking in and out among the carriage wheels. Men were insulting each other’s driving and their wives were calling out greetings to each other. The horses neighed back and forth, as though they too had friends there. Maybe all the noise was why Father stayed so silent. I wished he would speak to the Home Girl so she would feel welcome, but I could not think what to say myself.

  I sat there and tried to imagine feeling really sad about being parted from David or Tom. I don’t think I’d shed a tear for David. I am fond of Tom. I can’t imagine weeping over him though.

  I’ll leave the shock we had when we got home until later. It was catastrophic.

  Afternoon

  Here comes the shock, Diary!

  When we got home yesterday, a hackney from the station was in front of our house. The driver was muttering things as he carried a trunk in on his shoulder. Great-Aunt Lib and Cousin Anna had come a day early and, even though I tried hard to feel welcoming toward them, I took one look at their sour faces and felt sorry for myself instead.

  I forgot it was Saturday in all the bustle of new people, but trust Mother not to forget our Saturday night baths. It is a big job seeing to it that the entire family is clean for Sunday. In Mother’s mind, cleanliness isn’t NEXT to godliness; they are equals, part and parcel of the same thing. This time, she got David to bring in extra buckets of water to heat while she was off settling Aunt Lib and Cousin Anna in the spare room they are going to share.

  Then she collared Mary Anna and me and marched us down to the kitchen for our Saturday night bath. We both felt shy, even though there was a screen to hide behind. Since I was to go first, I turned my back to her and took off my clothes and climbed into the big tin tub. I started washing myself while Mother chatted with Mary Anna.

  “Would you mind if we just called you Mary?” she asked our Home Girl. “I’m afraid we might get two Annas confused.”

  “No, ma’am,” the Home Girl said. But her voice sounded funny.

  I would not want to be called Josephine because another Victoria was around the house. I am Victoria. I decided, then and there, to call her Mary Anna, whatever the rest did.

  Then I heard Mary Anna say, “Ma’am, they hunted through our heads when we left England, when we got to Hazelbrae and again the night before we left. If there’s a nit left in my hair, he’s a brave beast.”

  She was being polite but she still sounded fed up.

  She has an accent. I
t isn’t cockney but it is very British. I cannot write down how it sounds, just what it says. I don’t like books where they talk Scots or something and you can’t just read along because you keep having to translate the words.

  I could have told her Mother would check her head anyway. She won’t have a louse in the house.

  Then I climbed out and dried myself fast and pulled on my nightgown. While Mother did my hair up in rags, which are lumpy and only give me curls for half the morning, Mary Anna was scrubbing herself from head to toe. Mother let her use the lavender soap she makes. I could tell Mary Anna was not used to soap that smelled so sweet, but she did not say so. She just put it up to her nose, took a deep breath and smiled. I think that was her first smile in our house.

  So the two of us were ready for church this morning.

  Father is planning to have a bathroom built in our house with hot water that comes into the bathtub from a tap. They have one at my friend Eliza Miller’s house, but her father is a judge. They moved away a month ago and I miss her and her sister sorely. When Tom and I went to Sunday School, our class was so different with her gone. I do like Roberta Johns though. I’ve never noticed her much because I was Eliza’s friend, but Roberta could be a good friend too. I wonder if she likes me.

  I saw Moses following Mary Anna to her bed in Peggy’s old room. No rubber sheet for her. She looked down at our cat and smiled in a way that tells me she might be my friend, if she wasn’t a Home Girl. It is hard to know how to act to a girl who is smaller than I am and only one year older.

  Evening

  The Sabbath is supposed to be a day of rest, but it is one of the busiest days we have. There’s a saying that goes, “No rest for the wicked.” On Sunday it should say, “No rest for the godly.” The wicked can loll around all day, if they choose. We good Presbyterians have no time for lolling. First of all, we go to church three times and we have to wear our Sunday clothes from morning to night and keep them clean. We are supposed to think holy thoughts too. I am glad they can’t check up on what is inside our heads. We have to have some scripture verses off by memory every week, and every week we forget until the last minute. This week I had to learn the 23rd Psalm, and that was lucky since I already knew it. Tom had trouble with his piece and Father made him do it over and over because he kept putting in wrong words.

  When I came down to breakfast, Mary Anna was already hard at work. I thought about saying, “Good morning,” but her face was like a closed door with a sign saying: PRIVATE. NO TRESPASSING. It looked as though she’d starched it until it was stiff. I wonder if she had to keep it clenched that way so she would not cry. Her eyes stayed cast down and did not meet anyone else’s.

  I took my bowl of porridge from Mother and sat down. Mary Anna must have eaten hers earlier. She never stopped working.

  Then David arrived. He plunked himself down and ordered Mary Anna to fetch him his porridge. He spoke to her roughly, as though she were his slave. He spoke extra loudly, too, as if she were deaf.

  “David Cope, mind your manners,” Mother said. She was busy getting something for Father and missed seeing him glower.

  When Mary Anna set his porridge bowl down in front of him, he dug his spoon in without saying thank you. Sometimes he makes me ashamed. I heard Father say once that his brain is coldly analytical. I think his heart is too.

  “Now we are all here, let us ask God’s blessing on our food,” Father said.

  David had to drop his spoon fast. At least we don’t have to kneel. When Mother was a child, they all knelt while their father prayed, and by the time he said Amen, the food was stone cold. My father knows better. He always says short blessings.

  We are supposed to love the Sabbath Day and keep it holy. That means we can’t play games and we have to read books that are good for us, like Pilgrim’s Progress or The Wide, Wide World. Mother chooses. Sometimes we enjoy them. We just finished Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which was very good, I must admit.

  Thinking of the slave auction in it reminded me of Father and my going to the station and getting Mary Anna. I told Father so when we went for our Sunday walk together. He laughed.

  “No, Vic,” he said. “You had to pay for slaves. Home Children are free. The Home actually pays something toward their keep at first.”

  He sounded angry again. I could not think why. It must be something he has found out about which is unfit for children to hear. Mother has a long list of such things. I do my level best to find out all about them without letting anyone know.

  That’s how I discovered what’s happened to Peggy. Our neighbour, Mrs. Cameron, told Mother that not only is Peggy married now, but she’s going to have a baby. I cannot imagine Peggy being anyone’s mother. I would love to ask Mother questions about this, but I know she would not tell me a thing.

  I got this much by overhearing the two of them talking. Mrs. Cameron knows all the gossip and spills it into Mother’s ears. “Just one juicy morsel after another,” Father says.

  Mother works on her mending or embroiders whenever Mrs. C. is speaking, but she does not miss one word. Every so often she exclaims, “Oh, no, Mrs. Cameron. I’m sure you are mistaken.”

  Then Mrs. Cameron goes on to prove she is right by giving more gory details. She says Mrs. Dougal, who is coming to help with the heavy work, is “a bit mum but a good worker.”

  Mrs. Cameron is NOT mum at all. Last time she came, she said a dog was “bisected” by a wagon wheel on the main street of Guelph. I asked Mother what “bisected” meant exactly, and got scolded for eavesdropping. I still don’t know. Father would tell me to look it up in Webster’s Dictionary. Maybe I will.

  We sang my favourite hymn in church. “Fight the Good Fight.” Mary Anna came to church with us, but she did not sing. I wonder why. I could tell she knew the hymns. I saw her lips move while we sang “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus.”

  During the evening service, Father fell asleep and began to snore softly.

  “Poke him, Victoria,” Mother whispered. She was blushing with humiliation.

  I dug my elbow into his waistcoat and he woke up with a start and hollered out, “What’s the matter, Lily?” Then he took in where he was and bowed his head fast as though he were praying for forgiveness. I was sitting next to him, though. He was laughing! I could feel a huge laugh about to burst out of me until I looked at Mother. I don’t know how she does it, but she can stop a laugh with one sad look.

  Time to sleep now.

  My new room, Late afternoon, Monday, May 31

  Cousin Anna and Aunt Lib were supposed to share the spare room, but this morning Cousin A. went on and on about being such a light sleeper and how she needs her rest because she is delicate. (She should try sleeping with a pug puppy.) So I had to move in with Mary Anna. Tom cleared out of the boys’ room into mine, which is too small for a visitor. Cousin A. gets the big front room the boys had. David will sleep on the sofa in the parlour. It’s like a game of Musical Bedrooms. It won’t bother David much. When school lets out, he’s going to Grandpa Cope’s farm. He’s going to get paid and work as a hired man.

  So poor Mary Anna cannot have a room to herself until Aunt Lib and Cousin Anna leave us. She will sleep on the old truckle bed and I will have the cot she was using. I’m sitting on it now, stealing a little time to write before I have to help with supper.

  Mother said that this was a small room for two, but it wouldn’t be for long. (She must be forgetting that other time when their visit lasted nearly six weeks!) Six weeks squeezed into Peggy’s little bedroom is like being exiled, but I am very interested in Mary Anna and I’ll get to know her much better now we are sharing a room.

  I can just imagine what Nellie Bigelow would say if she had to sleep in the same room as a Home Child. She would expire on the spot. She is sure to be mean as dirt to Mary Anna. She called me a snob today because I made a face when she blew her nose like a trumpet. Mother went to school with Nellie’s mother and she says Nellie sounds just like her. “Just remember, Victoria, how
lucky you are to have me for your mother instead of Bertha Bigelow,” she said once. She is right.

  There’s a serial in the newspaper called “The Orphan Girl” or “The Darker Side of Life.” Nellie should read it.

  Mother sent Mary Anna and me up to change the beds before I left for school this morning. Snortle had wakened me early and so there was still time. We

  didn’t say much but I liked doing it together. It was almost like having a sister.

  David would be shocked at that idea. To him, a Home Girl is a servant, not a friend and never a sister! Sometimes I am almost sorry for David. He cuts himself off from people. In Geography I learned that an island is a body of land entirely surrounded by water. Well, David is an island of David entirely surrounded by David.

  I know that sounds daft, dear Diary, but I know what I mean.

  I brought my hairbrush and comb and nightgown down the hall to our room before I left too. Snortle followed me as usual and stared around at everything.

  “I hope you won’t mind Snortle being with us,” I said to Mary Anna, who was rearranging things in the chest of drawers. I don’t know what I’d have done if she had answered that she could not sleep in the same room with a dog. But she didn’t.

  “Who could mind Snortle?” she said with a flicker of a smile.

  Her smiles are gone so fast they are like hummingbirds.

  “Would you take care of him today while I’m at school?” I asked.

  She nodded. It will be nice for him to have her, but I felt a twinge of jealousy. I wish he was like Mary’s little lamb and could follow me to school each day. Tomorrow Mary Anna is going to be starting school, so he’ll have to follow Mother around. He is not fond of Aunt Lib or Cousin Anna.

  There is no rubber sheet on this bed. Mother did not mention it and I am pretending I forgot.