Flame and Ashes

by Janet Mcnaughton

Then, in what Papa calls a flash of genius, Mama realized we could put the two together. So when the shop opening announcement ran today, it not only said, Water cab service across the harbour offered to all customers, free of charge from the public cove, foot of Princes Street, and All goods offered at pre-fire prices, it also read, A packet of sugar with all purchases, gratis.

  Sarah and I spent a good part of today filling small candy bags with sugar, using a soup ladle that Nettie saved from the fire. I am too tired to write more.

  Sunday, August 21st, South Side Warehouse

  After working so hard yesterday, we were glad to take our day of rest and assembled for church in excellent cheer. Our dear shopgirls looked much improved, and only slightly overheated in their new winter outfits. Only one small thing marred an otherwise perfect day. Phoebe and Liza proposed to cross the Long Bridge on foot, as George Street Wesleyan Church lies just beyond. When they told us this, Mr. Matt said, “I hear the parson gives a right good sermon at that church. I believe I’ll accompany you ladies, if you’ve no objection.” Mr. Matt follows the Church of England. He was part of our congregation at the Cathedral until the fire.

  Phoebe and Liza were delighted, of course. Miss Rosy said nothing, but I saw a look of utter dismay flash across her face. She is also Church of England (her Sunday bonnets caused such a sensation that Mama used to joke that ladies from other churches would attend our services just to see them). Miss Rosy quickly composed herself and no one else saw, but I do believe she is very sorry now that she threw Mr. Matt over and would willingly be his sweetheart again, if he would only give her the chance. But I don’t think he will, because I’ve noticed that he never addresses Miss Rosy directly and he will look anywhere to avoid meeting her eyes.

  We all set off together, Miss Rosy chatting to Sarah with great animation about the hats they were making. I think she was trying to show that Mr. Matt’s attentions mean nothing to her now, but I do not believe this. It’s an unhappy situation.

  After noontime dinner, we would willingly have gone downstairs to fuss over the store, but that, sadly, would count as work. Liza proposed a walk, but Miss Rosy said she had a headache and took to her bed. It must have been a terrible headache, for she looked miserable. Liza and Phoebe and Mr. Matt and Ned set off together and I sat down to make this quick entry in my diary. Now Sarah and I will settle down to write our last weekly letter to Alfie, though it may not reach him before he comes home! I wish he had written us once more. I allow it must be an effort for him to write anything, but I do hope he hasn’t forgotten me.

  Tuesday, August 23rd

  Winsor & Son Mercantile Premises

  The store opening was such a grand success, it left us quite exhausted. Luckily, today is a bank holiday, to make up for the holiday we missed on Regatta Day, so we can rest. Nettie is packing a picnic and we’re all going to walk along South Side Road the whole way to Fort Amherst at the mouth of the Narrows, where the fresh salt air will revive us, no doubt. But before we go, I want to write about our opening day.

  The boat ride proved to be a grand inducement, and Ned told us of customers lined up at the public cove, waiting their turns. Others came by carriage and a good many walked. The South Side has grown (as have all the neighbourhoods that survived the fire) so we have plenty of local customers. But the fire has changed the harbour too. There are so many ships now, delivering aid and mail from Canada, the United States and Britain, that it is almost dangerous to take a small boat like Ned’s rodney across.

  Ned said he would be fine, but Papa insisted that Mr. Stabb himself row as well, as he is the one with the most ship sense. I could tell Ned found Mr. Stabb a bit frightening, as Alfie and I always have, and he was quite dwarfed by our wharf master when they rowed side by side, but at the end of the day, Mr. Stabb said Ned was a dab hand with an oar, giving him a slap on the back that pretty nearly decked him. Ned seemed delighted, as he always is when anyone is kind to him. I’m pleased to note that the whipped-dog expression is fading from his eyes.

  The sugar was another reason we attracted so many customers, just as Mama planned. Papa is sure we saw more trade because of it.

  Now everyone is getting ready, and I must go find my hat.

  Thursday, August 25th

  Winsor & Son Mercantile Premises

  The shop is so busy, I have little time to write. Today we finally had a second letter from Alfie, but it was just like the first. It’s been very vexing to hear so little from him! But we also had a wire from Scilly Cove, telling us that Ruby and Alfie are to return a week this Saturday aboard a schooner with the unlikely name of Prince Le Boo. Everyone else will welcome Ruby, but I am still angry with her. Without her interference, Alfie would not have gone so far, or for such a long time. I have missed him fiercely. I would like to be able to forgive her, but I don’t believe I am good enough to do so.

  Friday, August 26th

  Winsor & Son Mercantile Premises

  We had scarcely finished breakfast this morning when a steamer called with a second shipment of stock. As we tried to unpack and mind the store at the same time, Papa said it was time to start hiring again, so he’s going to put the word out among his crowd. These crates were mostly filled with kitchenware and crockery, which pleased Papa because these goods are in great demand as people restock their cupboards. He promptly made Mama the gift of a set of everyday dishes, so now we’ll eat off ordinary Blue Willow plates again. It took us most of the day to unpack the crates between the jigs and the reels, because we had to keep stopping to help customers. Mama says she and Papa will burn the midnight oil tonight, doing the inventory so the new goods can go out tomorrow.

  In the middle of everything, Miss Maude Seaward arrived with our poor box from London, giving Ned a penny when he carried it up for her. Mama offered her tea, but she could see how busy we were and she had other boxes to deliver, so she didn’t stay. Afterwards, we were glad she wasn’t there when we finally unpacked the poor box behind the counters among the new crates, because our anticipation soon turned to dismay. As Miss Rosy later said, poor was the best word for that box indeed. She and Phoebe and Liza did nothing but laugh at the clothes, but they may. August has turned wet and cool, so they are more comfortable in the warmer ladies’ clothes that arrived in the first shipment. They look quite fashionable again, but it’s another matter for me.

  Mama unpacked one disappointment upon the next — threadbare skirts, yellowed blouses, frayed sweaters. The best thing for me was a faded gingham pinafore which I can at least use to protect my everyday dress. The white pinny I wore the day of the fire is quite worn out now from constant wear. The worst thing was a dress my size, dark mauve satin, all flounces and frills. It would have been hideous when new, but someone had spilled a cup of tea across the front, leaving a pattern of splashes, big and small. The thought of wearing it brought tears to my eyes.

  “Oh dear,” Mama said.

  Liza picked it up, weighing the fabric with expert hands. “This would make lovely pincushions,” she said, “if I cut around the marred parts and unpick the lace for trim.”

  Mama gave my shoulder a little pat. “Yes, Liza, please do. Not all charity is kind.”

  The next thing that came out of the box was wonderful, though not for me. It was a brown flannel suit, well cut, for a young man. We were astonished because Ned did not come to live with us until after May’s family came to visit that Sunday. Nettie says it was providential. (If so, I must be out of favour with Providence these days.)

  “Why, it’s hardly been worn,” Liza said when she saw the suit. “Ned! Where’re you to? Get yourself over here.”

  The jacket sleeves and pant legs were a little long, but otherwise the suit fit Ned perfectly. “You looks every inch the gentleman in that outfit.” Liza said. “Just let me pin the cuffs.”

  We flattered Ned that much, he turned quite pink. I’m sure he was glad when we finished, but his eyes shone when he looked at the suit on Liza’s arm.

  The b
ox was nearly empty now, but we found a woollen shawl that will suit Nettie, and some knitted scarves and stockings with hardly any holes. Finally, at the bottom of the box, there was a dress for Sarah that Mama pronounced “perfectly serviceable.” It’s grey linsey-woolsey, or “wincey” as Liza says, with handmade lace at the collar and cuffs, and only a few moth holes. Mama is darning them now.

  “It is a bit old-fashioned,” Miss Rosy said when Sarah modelled it for us. “All those flounces at the back might as well be a bustle, but never mind. A few rows of narrow black velvet ribbon just above the hem and cuffs would make it more fashionable.” And Liza agreed.

  With that, the box was empty and we were glad. Mama remarked that we’d now have excellent cleaning rags. Ned’s suit was the only truly good thing in it. As Phoebe says, he will look “a right perfect gentleman” come Sunday morning.

  So it was a day of surprises, and most of them unpleasant, but the nicest surprise was yet to come. When Papa came home he called us all down, and there in the carriage sat a brand new Singer sewing machine! Liza just had to hug someone when she saw it — she couldn’t very well hug Papa — so she hugged Sarah and me. Then she very solemnly promised Papa he would never have cause to regret this investment.

  Papa said he was quite sure that was true. He’d ordered it just days after she came to live with us. “We’re very lucky Mr. Smythe’s shop is located on the other side of Bowrings so he was not burnt out. Ships have been coming so fast and thick, and he’s able to get his orders in record time.”

  Liza couldn’t take her eyes off the sewing machine while Mr. Morrissey took it down and sat it upright.

  “It’s a sin you’ll have so little time to sew, with us being so busy in the shop and all,” Phoebe said.

  “Oh, but she will have time,” Papa replied, and he told us he hopes to have at least half of our staff back at their old jobs soon, and most everyone before Christmas. He’s even going make an offer on a space on Le Marchant Road for the candy kitchen. He turned to Liza and told her that Mrs. Steele will set up a workshop here as soon as a larger order of sewing machines can be obtained. “Until then, you’ll be our seamstress,” he concluded.

  Ned and Papa carried the sewing machine upstairs, and Liza stayed at it until bedtime. The hideous mauve dress is now a dozen pincushions, stuffed with poor-box rags that were intended to clothe us. Sarah and Phoebe unpicked the lace from scraps of the dress by lamplight to make the trim. Mama and Papa are downstairs taking inventory and next week more shopgirls will return to their jobs. Even Patience and Prudence are coming back to work with Miss Rosy.

  Wednesday, August 31st

  Winsor & Son Mercantile Premises

  Life is so dismal, it’s almost as if bad luck came out of that poor box. Alfie comes home on Saturday, so of course time just drags by. If that weren’t enough, it’s been pouring rain all week. Trade is so slack that I’m actually writing in the shop while it’s open! On Monday Papa only allowed Ned to make one trip across the harbour to post a notice to say our water cab service was suspended until the rain let up. Ned came back soaked to the skin, but undaunted by the weather. “People expects me to be there to bring them across to the shop now, Mr. Winsor,” he told Papa. “They’ll think I’m nothing but a useless hangashore when they sees I’m not coming.”

  This is the first time Ned has spoken up for himself, and I’m happy to see he’s becoming his own person. I think Papa was pleased too, because he promised Ned a set of oilskins as soon as they can be found, so he can work in the rain.

  So Ned isn’t bringing customers across, people don’t feel like carrying parcels in the soaking wet, and the roads on the South Side are, as Phoebe says, “some shocking muddy” for a place that’s mostly rock. The only people we see are shop workers coming in to ask about their jobs. News spreads quickly in this town. Most of them don’t even stop for a chat, rushing upstairs as if their jobs might run away.

  Today Mama is taking down their particulars. Poor Papa had to go across to the north side in spite of the rain because he’d made an appointment to see a man about making a fence. (Municipal Council is making everyone fence off dangerous places now, and as our house is just a hole in the ground on Gower Street, it counts as a dangerous place.)

  Sarah and Miss Rosy don’t even notice the weather, devoting these rainy days to their hats. They are, as Liza says, on a tear, and soon we’ll need a whole counter just for their work. Papa says we’ll have a millinery department equal to that of the old store, and I think he’s right. Which is fine for them, but not for me. I do wish something interesting would happen. The door just opened below, but it’s probably only someone looking for work.

  Wednesday evening

  It wasn’t one of Papa’s crowd who came in when the door opened while I was writing, it was a policeman, asking for Papa. Sarah and I immediately offered to take the constable upstairs to Mama, we were so curious to know why he’d come. He introduced himself as Constable Harris and removed his helmet when he met Mama, but he wouldn’t sit down. He asked, very politely, had we been the owners of a dwelling known as Windsor Castle?

  Mama was taken aback. “Why, certainly not!”

  The policeman realized he had misspoken and tried again. Surely we were the owners of that grand new house on Gower Street?

  Mama agreed to this description.

  “Well, Missus,” he said, “we got some lot of furniture that folks took the liberty of ‘saving’ from that house the night of the fire.” I could tell he knew they weren’t saving things for us. “Some of it is in the Parade Street Rink, and some’s in the old Drill Shed.”

  Mama was stunned into silence, so I asked, “What sort of property, Constable?”

  He told us there was “every kind of thing. It’s a bit of a joke among us,” he added. “Seems like half the people who drag stuff in have something taken from —” he stopped himself just in time “— that grand house on Gower Street belonging to the Winsors.” Then he told Mama that the Constabulary would be grateful if we’d come and claim it, adding that most people had already shown up to reclaim their property by now.

  “We’ve been so busy setting up shop,” Mama replied, “and you know, we felt sure everything was lost. To recover things now, almost two months after the fire —” She broke off in amazement.

  Constable Harris smiled and told us this made a nice change “from all the grim tasks they have been at since the fire. Policing the lineups for relief, chasing after stolen goods and the people who claimed relief without the right to it.” He said reuniting folks with things they thought were “gone to ashes” was a treat. Then he added, “You tell your good man to come along right quick.” He glanced around the warehouse. “Spruce this place up like it’s never been, all that fine furniture will.”

  Mama asked if he could stay to share the good news with Papa, but he said he was expected back at the station. Then Mama asked me to show the constable to the door. I did, then I rushed back up to the shop with the news. Sarah and I spent the evening trying to decide what we would most like to have again. I want my bed back, but Sarah thinks it unlikely we’ll recover anything so big. I did not argue with her, but if someone could steal a piano while the fire closed in, surely it would be possible to steal a four-poster bed.

  To think we may see our furniture again!

  September 1892

  Thursday, September 1st

  Winsor & Son Mercantile Premises

  It’s still raining. Papa says he can only spare the time to go look for our furniture once, and there’s no point in going in the rain because the police would very likely load everything into a cart immediately and the varnish on the furniture would be ruined, so we must wait for better weather. My whole life is one big wait this week.

  Today while Sarah and Miss Rosy worked on their hats and Liza sewed, Phoebe and I loitered at the counters waiting for customers. Phoebe was looking through The Evening Telegram (which has finally begun to publish again, with a new press
that just arrived from New York). She came upon a story so interesting she had to tell us about it. “Listen here. A young domestic left the island to find work, like people kept telling us we should,” she said to Liza and Miss Rosy. “On the boat to Halifax, she met a man who’d come home from Seattle, Washington, to see about his people after the fire. It was love at first sight. They got married right there in Halifax. Just imagine, she left St. John’s penniless and now she’s the wife of a wealthy man. It says her new husband is worth more than $15,000.”

  Miss Rosy asked who she was.

  “Miss Struggles, it says.”

  I giggled and Liza frowned. “Somebody’s after making that story up, Phoebe,” she said, adding that there’s never been anyone by the name of Struggles in St. John’s.

  Phoebe defended the story, noting that it had been taken right out of The Halifax Herald, and even included the name of the minister who’d married them. “You think they manufacture the news over there in Halifax?” she demanded. Then she sighed. “Just think, that could have been one of us.”

  Liza asked where Seattle, Washington, was. Miss Rosy told her it was near Vancouver. “I’m glad it wasn’t one of us,” she added. “I don’t wish Miss Struggles any grief, but she’ll always be beholden to that man for raising her up like that, won’t she? And you can’t trust a wealthy man. I only wish I’d learned that sooner.” She didn’t look up while she spoke, pinning ribbon so savagely it made me feel sorry for the hat.

  Thankfully, Nettie chose that moment to bring us tea and raisin buns. As she put the teapot down, I saw Liza and Phoebe exchange a look, and I was shocked to find they pity Miss Rosy. Even though she is beautiful and clever, her life is in ruins.

  Nettie was a good distraction, with plenty to say about the furniture. She would like a proper kitchen cupboard, so she can stop putting dishes into filthy old crates. Sarah would like to see our china cabinet again, so Mama’s wedding china and silver would have “a proper place to stay.”