In the old house on Patrick Street, I shared a room with Sarah, but here I have a room of my own, with a four-poster, oak bed, and a canopy of blue and green jacquard silk with a matching counterpane. Sarah’s bedclothes are pink and gold. Mama wanted sensible patchwork quilts, but Papa prevailed. I’m sure that princesses in England do not sleep in beds finer than ours. Alfie has a hammock in a corner of his room so he can pretend he has run away to sea. (Last winter, when he was so ill, I slept in that hammock for three nights in case he needed me.) His room faces the Narrows, and he has a brass spyglass mounted on a tripod.
We moved the spyglass to the Golden Hind today, so I can help Alfie learn to read the flags on Signal Hill, which are very important to the merchants. The signal men on Signal Hill use their spyglass to watch for new flags at the lighthouse at distant Cape Spear, and then they copy them on the mast on Signal Hill. That way, everyone knows which ships are bound for our harbour and the merchants can prepare their wharves. Papa will be pleased to know we’ve been using the book of flags he gave Alfie.
I know I am very lucky. I could easily have been born into a poor family like Ruby’s. Next time, I will write the interesting story of Ruby and how she came from Trinity Bay to be our maid of all work.
Thursday, June 9th
This is Ruby’s story. Writing it down will remind me how fortunate I am, I’m sure (even though some people are cruel enough to ridicule our house).
Ruby Parrott is twelve, only a year older than I am, but she’s already working far from her family. The day she arrived, I laughed when she said she came from Scilly Cove. I wasn’t making fun of her, only it seemed funny because Ruby isn’t the least bit silly. Mama made me apologize, and then Papa told us the Scilly Islands are off the western coast of England. Many Newfoundlanders came from the West Country and Papa said we should not laugh at good old English names, so now I don’t. Ruby is small but sturdy with pretty orange hair and freckles. She reminds me of the girl in a fairy tale who works very hard and has only her upright character to recommend her, but somehow manages to triumph over adversity.
I know how Ruby came to be working here in St. John’s at such a tender age because May told us last December when a snowstorm detained our drawing master, Mr. Nichols. (His lessons cost extra, but Drawing is very popular, so everyone in our class takes them, except for Susie Verge, our Charity Girl.) We meet in the Principal’s parlour because Mr. Nichols is a fine English gentleman who is treated as a Distinguished Visitor. It’s a pretty room where Miss Cowling receives visitors (though I would sooner learn to draw in a place where good upholstery and fine carpets did not lie so near, just waiting to be smudged).
Miss Cowling had ordered a fire to be laid in the fireplace, and I was wearing a thick flannel petticoat under my red wool dress. The snowstorm caught everyone unawares and somehow we were left to our own devices for the afternoon. When we realized this, we took off our smocks and put the drawing easels away and pulled armchairs up to the hearth. It was very cozy and felt like a holiday. The first few blizzards of winter are always exciting. (They do fray the nerves by April.)
Although there are nine girls in my class, May is my only True Friend because the other girls are not always kind to me (except for Susie, who is mindful of her place and keeps very much to herself). I am the smallest, I do fidget and, as Nettie says, I am born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. The other girls can sit still all day long — even Susie, who comes from a family of paupers — while my arms and legs start to move before I know what they are doing. Whenever I fidget too much, Minnie McGinty will look at the ceiling and say, “I think Miss Clara Butler forgot to take her monkey,” dragging the memory of that long-gone principal and her cursed pet back from beyond.
Then my cheeks burn and the other girls laugh, all except for Susie, who stares at the floor, and May, who frowns. Thankfully, May’s frown is enough to make Minnie behave.
Miss Bolt often says that May and I are like chalk and cheese (which might have been funny the first time). I know which of us is the chalk. May is a paragon of virtue but I love her anyway. She is gentle and pretty with curly blonde hair and eyes that are actually sea green, and even though I terrified her when we were first at school, in Infants, she has never blamed me. She learns all sorts of Interesting Things from the servants who are her main companions, so that’s how May knows what she told us on that snowy afternoon: every fall, girls like Ruby come to town to go into domestic service if their families haven’t laid up enough food to see everyone through the winter. That way, no one starves to death.
Still, Ruby wasn’t shipped off heartlessly. She came to us with the highest recommendation from the Anglican clergyman in Scilly Cove, and she was chosen especially for us by Miss Maude Seaward, May’s maiden aunt. I allow that Ruby was lucky to land here, because Nettie is so cheerful and Mama has raised us all to be kind and polite to the servants, but she cried buckets anyway for the first few weeks last fall. She tried to hide it, but Alfie and I would find her out when we were playing. I hated to be a tattletale, but she was so very miserable that I finally told Mama, who promptly enrolled Ruby in the Girls’ Friendly Society. So now, Ruby goes off once a week to the meetings with Mama and Sarah and she has been formally befriended by Amelia Purchase, who is in the class ahead of me. Ruby no longer cries, but she’s never very happy either. I think this is unfortunate because she has a very pretty smile and all this frowning may ruin her looks, which will make it harder for her to make a Good Marriage when she’s older.
(Nettie says no one will ever marry me if I don’t start behaving like a Lady, but I told Alfie that doesn’t matter, as I plan to marry a Pirate Admiral and then I will be a Pirate Princess, and I’ll order my husband’s pirates to lop the head off anyone who is crooked with me. Then I had to make Alfie take an Oath of Secrecy.)
It doesn’t seem right to have someone as sad as Ruby living in our happy home. Today I slipped her a peppermint knob, which I always think of as a very cheering sweet. We are very good to her. Ruby is the same size as I am, even though I’m small for my age. Last Christmas I gave her my best old dress on Boxing Day, rather than put it into the box that Mama was giving to the Girls’ Friendly Society (who would only have given it to someone just like Ruby in any case). Even if the cloth had an odd greenish cast, it was a good dress with lots of wear left in it. The worsted wool was scratchy, and it did chafe a bit at the cuffs and collar, but it was very warm. I am not sure Ruby was properly grateful for this Act of Charity. I think those who are unfortunate enough to be poor should at least have the grace to show gratitude.
I didn’t intend to spend so much time writing about Ruby, though I must say it made me feel much better about “Windsor Castle.” Now, I must get on with my Fancy Needlework.
Saturday, June 11th
I miss May on the weekends. The sad truth is, I can never see May socially, and it’s my fault. This is especially sad for May because her life is spent among extremely pious grown-ups. Her grandfather is the bishop’s chaplain, and her father is also a clergyman. Her mother, grandmother and Miss Maude, her maiden aunt, devote their lives to Good Works. (Some of their works are very good indeed. Miss Maude was the one who noticed how clever Susie was at the Springdale Street Mission School and arranged for her to come to our school with all her fees paid.) May has no brothers or sisters — not so much as a cousin to play with.
I know it would do May a world of good to have a nice wild romp with Alfie and me, but I dare not ask, for Mama still doesn’t know that I was banished from May’s house. I’ve managed to keep this secret from her for three long years. When we were eight and in Infants, in our first year of school, Miss Maude thought I might make a suitable playmate for May, and I was invited to Ordnance House. It’s a large and gloomy edifice, easily as big as two houses, which belonged to the regiment when British soldiers were still garrisoned here. Now that the government owns it, the Seawards live there because May’s mother, Mrs. Seaward junior, is the Premier
’s niece. (This is a topic of lively conversation among adults, but Mama has warned it would be very rude to ever mention it to members of the Seaward family.)
As soon as I stepped inside Ordnance House, I became sure that it must be haunted. It was a dark, mauzy April day with fog streeling in off the harbour, perfect for ghost hunting. All the senior Seawards were off on Missions of Mercy, so May and I were free to roam from room to room while I made up tragic stories to explain why ghosts would haunt the house. One I still remember involved the consumptive fiancée of a faithful English officer stationed here during the last war with the French. She died in England and now, I told May, she often appeared to walk the floors of Ordnance House in her wedding gown, her face shrouded in a veil of the finest Devon lace.
The wind was high and it howled right mournfully across the chimney pots. Sarah and I shared a bedroom then, and she had just finished reading Jane Eyre by Miss Charlotte Brontë aloud to me, so the story was fresh in my mind. (Sarah is forever reading stories about girls who are suddenly orphaned and have to make their way in the world alone.) I asked May, didn’t she think that noise sounded like the faint lamentations of a tortured soul? And perhaps there was a mad woman living in the attic. I really didn’t mean to suggest there was a mad woman living in May’s attic, but she had not yet read Jane Eyre, so she didn’t understand that my question was inspired by Literature.
It was a perfect afternoon. After a few hours, Mrs. Mercer, the housekeeper, called us down to the cozy kitchen for bread and molasses. When Mama came for me, she was quite put out to discover us alone with the housekeeper. Later, I heard her tell Papa that May appears to spend altogether too much time alone with the servants and the Seawards ought to remember Charity begins at home.
Unfortunately, May proved to have a delicate imagination. The very night of my visit, she began to have nightmares and could not be left to sleep alone. I never imagined my fancies might affect her this way. I was only hoping to amuse her as I do Alfie, who has never been frightened by my stories, even when he could barely talk. (I did not understand then how fearless Alfie is. He has always loved to visit the little mummified Eskimo baby in the museum in the top floor of the Post Office, whereas May won’t set foot up there for fear of it.)
Late one night when May woke up crying, Miss Maude demanded to know why this was happening and the whole story tumbled out. Soon after, Miss Maude required May to tell me that I would not be invited back to Ordnance House.
For weeks I lived in fear that one of the Seaward ladies might tell Mama, but that was the year the Board of Health closed all the schools two months early because of the diphtheria epidemic. There was very little visiting of any kind that spring; we even stopped attending church for a time. When the schools reopened in the fall, everyone seemed to have forgotten that May and I had ever played together, but we are still the best of friends in spite of everything.
I should not like to give the impression that the Seawards never think of May’s welfare. Miss Maude brings her to the Girls’ Friendly Society, where she is companion to a deserving maid of all work her own age. But May says Jenny is so much older in her ways, so keenly interested in fashion and thoughts of marriage, they can scarcely find a common topic of conversation. I’m sure Ruby would have made a better companion for May.
(Sarah goes to the Girls’ Friendly Society too, but Mama says I am not fit, as I would be likely to turn a gentle housemaid into a little pirate. I would rather stay home and play with Alfie anyway.)
Tuesday, June 14th
Miss Cowling called me to her office this afternoon, and was pleased when I told her how many pages I have already filled in my diary, but I had to tell her the project does not seem to be helping with my Fancy Needlework. She suggested that I not try to sew immediately after writing, so now I am getting up early to write before breakfast. Mama is so pleased to know I’ve taken to this ugly ledger that yesterday we finally went to the store for my new summer gloves.
Today I think I will describe Papa’s store while it is still fresh in my mind. It’s a wonderful grand store, so I may well run out of steam before I can describe it all.
Most of the buildings in St. John’s are wooden clapboard, even fine ones such as ours, but only brick and stone buildings are allowed on Water and Duckworth Streets, where business is conducted. Papa says they made that rule after the Great Fire of 1846 to prevent the city from burning again, and they widened the streets too.
Winsor & Son is a grand, three-storey, brick building that takes up a full third of a block on the harbour side of Water Street. But we don’t just sell goods in our store; things are made there as well. Near Papa’s office on the third floor, in rooms with skylights where the light is best, the tailors and dressmakers have their workshops. I love to hear the whirring of the sewing machines as we pass by on our way to see Papa, but we never interrupt. Mrs. Millie Steele, the head tailoress, is a stern widow from Scotland.
The second floor is used for storing stock, but that will soon change. Coming down the stairs to the shop on the main floor, I always feel a thrill to see the varnished wooden counters where smartly dressed shop clerks and shopgirls wait on customers. Every kind of treasure can be found at Winsor & Son: fashionable clothing; hats and shoes for women and men and children; jewellery, watches and clocks; yard goods and lace; and of course the confectionery counter. Though many things are made in the store, the soaps and perfumes and jewellery are imported from England and America and even more exotic places such as Paris, France. Altogether, Papa employs nearly sixty people.
Sarah’s favourite place, of course, is the millinery department, where all the pretty hats are made with felt cloth or straw braid and sheets of buckram, right before the eyes of our customers. Miss Rosy Noseworthy just became head milliner last year when Father’s previous head milliner, Miss Mary Prosper, married a lawyer, Mr. French. Miss Rosy is only twenty-two. She was seventeen when she came to work for us, and her mother, who was a widow in poor health, died soon after. (Miss Rosy is so very much like one of the orphans in Sarah’s books, I wonder if that’s part of Sarah’s fascination with hat making.) Miss Rosy often says, being an orphan, she must work extra hard. She’s joking, but Papa says she is worth her weight in gold. She is a modiste of the highest order, and all the fashionable ladies come to her for their hats, even the wife of the Premier.
Three milliners work under her, and there are also two apprentices close to Sarah’s age, Prudence and Patience. Papa jokes that Prudence is the most impatient girl he’s ever met and Patience is utterly lacking in prudence. They try Miss Rosy’s patience and she sometimes blusters at them, but she is too kind-hearted to let anyone go, and quite proud of her teaching skills. (I once overheard her tell Mama that she felt certain she could teach a chicken how to make hats.) They also provide Sarah with excellent gossip.
I’ve only described part of Papa’s premises, but Sarah just asked me to hold a skein of yarn while she winds it up. I don’t know how she can think of knitting now that winter’s over!
Wednesday, June 15th
This summer, Papa plans to expand the shop and move most of the storerooms across the harbour into an old stone warehouse on the South Side. He inherited the building unexpectedly last winter when one of his father’s oldest friends died, but the warehouse sat empty for many years while old Mr. Fraser declined. After the warehouse has been cleaned out, the jewellery, watch and shoe departments will move to the second floor and the displays of clothing and furniture will expand on the main floor. Papa’s family actually lived in those very rooms on the second floor of the shop when he was growing up! It’s hard to imagine such humble beginnings.
Now Alfie wants me to play with him. I told him to wait while I write just one more sentence, but it’s going to be two. I planned to finish my description today, but that will have to wait until next time.
Thursday, June 16th
As pretty as the shop is, the most interesting things happen on the wharf side, in wo
rkshops with stoves and open flames and fire buckets everywhere, where the sharp, sweet smell of burnt sugar from the confectionery kitchen competes with coal smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. The candy kitchen is filled with pots of boiling sugar syrup, and we never go near there except for the Christmas toffee pull, when everyone is invited in for the day. Most merchants do not make their own candy, but Nanny Winsor, who died before I was born, learned to make sweets in England. At first she worked alone, but in time she ruled over many women in the large candy kitchen. Winsor & Son is famous for penny candy and boiled sweets which are sold all over the island, and we are proud of the tradition.
Behind the candy kitchen, Mr. Bright, the tinsmith, and Mr. Sampson, the blacksmith, work with their apprentices. Mr. Matthew Bright is young to be a master of his trade, but he comes from a large family of tinsmiths in Trinity. Alfie once asked how old he was when he first started, and he replied, “I allow I’ve had my hand at it since I learned to walk.” His shop makes tins for our candies, buckets and coffee pots, baking sheets and bread pans, cookie cutters and even tin stars and icicles and candle holders for Christmas trees. No one has ever seen Mr. Matt lose his temper. He sometimes teaches his apprentices skills by making little toys, so he often has a toy for Alfie or me. Once, he gave me a clever little coin bank shaped like the Customs House. I treasure it.
Flame and Ashes Page 2