What the Heart Keeps

by Rosalind Laker

  Minnie shrank still further into herself, looking almost as if her senses had been knocked out of her by the enormity of his threat. Lisa raged inwardly. If he had been in possession of all the facts about the child, he could not have said anything better guaranteed to crush her into terrified obedience. Minnie gave a nod, closing her eyes and turning her face away, her jaw shaking as if her teeth chattered in her fear. Still grinning, the red-haired man returned his attention to Lisa, beginning to unbuckle his belt. Outside his companion, in spite of the rattle of wheels and the rush of air, must have heard something of the voices inside, for he stopped jerking on the doors and thumped a fist for admittance instead. It gave impetus to the red-haired man’s actions, showing that he knew a lack of response would send the fellow up over the roof to try the other door. Lisa threw herself towards the only weapon of defence within reach, but before her outstretched fingers could grab the lantern, she was seized and brought crashing down in a tangle of her limbs and his.

  She fought wildly, hitting and struggling as his awful weight pressed her down on the hard floorboards. He swore at her vilely, finding her stronger than he had expected, and with a free hand he jerked her head upwards by a handful of hair and crashed it down again, stunning her almost into oblivion with pain. The resulting second or two of near unconsciousness lessened the impact of the strange sound he emitted that was more gasp than grunt as he was struck across the back of the neck. All she knew was that he had become quite motionless and his weight had increased to an extent where it threatened to impair her breathing.

  “I think he’s dead, Lisa,” Minnie’s voice uttered in high-pitched tones not far from hysteria.

  Gripped by fresh horror, Lisa pulled herself free and away from the man who lay with one of the displaced props across his shoulders. Minnie had forgotten the scissors, but she had thought of the prop. She remained standing where she had hurled it down, her hands drawn back and clasped together against her chest as if she had become transfixed after her timely action. Overhead boots slithered and scraped as someone came across the roof. Scarcely able to think, guided by an instinct for survival, Lisa turned out the wick of the lantern and grabbed up the prop.

  “Don’t make a sound,” she whispered to Minnie, giving her a swift thrust into the safety of the deepest darkness. Then she herself drew back, balancing the prop horizontally in both hands.

  The door was shot back. The new arrival was revealed in silhouette against the stars. “What’s the big idea —?” he began. Then, puzzled at there being no sound within and thinking for a moment of disbelief that maybe he was in the wrong boxcar after all, he peered into the blackness of the interior and spoke his companion’s name inquiringly: “Matt?”

  There was a rush of movement. The end of the prop caught him full in the chest and he went falling backwards to roll over and down and far out of sight as the train rushed onwards, the prop left askew by the side of the track. Lisa, who had barely saved herself from falling with it by grabbing at the door, reeled back out of danger.

  Filled with abhorrence, she forced herself to return to the prone figure on the floor. There was no pulse. She guessed the neck had been broken and knew what must be done. Using all her strength, she dragged the body across to the open aperture. There she dropped to her knees and with a final effort pushed it outside.

  Shudder after shudder went through her. Quickly she closed the door and had to wait until a feeling of nausea passed. Stumbling to where the matches were kept, she relit the lantern, her hands shaking so much that it became a difficult task. The fitful light revealed Minnie still in a state of shock, crouched down with her arms flung over her head. Lisa went to sit down beside her.

  “He wasn’t dead, Minnie,” she lied in a cracked and husky voice that echoed the strain of what she had done. Her main concern was that the child should not grow up with a man’s death on her conscience to plague her in years to come. “You had just knocked him unconscious.”

  Minnie lowered her arms, her face tear-streaked. “I ‘ate him!” she cried out wildly. “ ‘E ‘urt you.”

  “He didn’t hurt me as much as he might have done. You prevented that.” Lisa leaned her head back in utter exhaustion against the wall. She was scarcely able to lift an arm as Minnie fell sobbing against her, but she cradled the child’s head soothingly against her shoulder. All her plans to make a new start in Calgary must be revised. She had no idea if a police investigation would follow the discovery of the red-haired man’s body on the line. It would depend on whether his travelling companion lodged any sort of complaint, although that was doubtful considering the circumstances. Nevertheless the risk remained to combine with the ever present possibility of Mrs. Grant’s conducting an independent search for her and Minnie. The sooner the two of them moved on from Calgary, the better it would be.

  They arrived there in the afternoon. Lisa looked out of the boxcar before they alighted to make sure they would not be seen. Unexpectedly she found herself catching her breath with pleasure at the sight of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains making dramatic impact against the sky. Quickly they darted across the tracks to reach the shelter of some warehouses. Nobody had spotted them.

  Calgary was a thriving, bustling place with wide streets, where stables and saddle-makers and smithies gave a horsy aroma to whole areas. Architecturally it was a conglomeration of styles from the imposing sandstone banks and stores incorporating cornices and balustrades and Ionic pillars to the impressive mansions of the rich and the veranda-fronted houses that flanked wide streets. At a humbler level there were the log cabins on the outskirts, the sod-roof shacks from the city’s early beginnings, and the canvas shelters erected by those in the process of building their own simple dwelling place or merely passing through. Most people were going about their business in stout working attire, but the well-dressed women followed fashion in large-crowned hats and the low-busted sheath silhouette with the ankle-length skirts that would have been at home in Paris, London, or New York. Their prosperous menfolk were in stiff collars and natty suits, diamond pins sparkling in cravats, gold watch-chains sporting fobs for gold dollars. Streetcars rattled and automobiles bleeped horns and carriage wheels followed clattering hooves. The steps of the Hudson Bay Company appeared to be a meeting place for Indians, who sat there leisurely watching the world go by.

  Minnie was fascinated by a stuffed goat above the entrance to a meat market, which Lisa thought was a strange choice of trade advertisement. Yet she was glad that her charge was showing interest in everything, seeming to have recovered remarkably well from the experience on the train. Not for the first time Lisa felt that she and Minnie could truly have been sisters, for they were both survivors, each with a will that matched the other’s to get through everything somehow.

  Only men with an alert eye for a pretty face and figure took notice of Lisa as she led Minnie along the streets with her, her battered valise in her other hand. On the corner of Seventh and Centre streets, which seemed to constitute the hub of the city, she consulted one of the strangers’ letters that she had salvaged from Miss Drayton’s desk drawer, checking the address she sought. “It shouldn’t be far from here,” she said to Minnie as they set off again.

  The house, when they came to it, was large with heavily draped windows, giving it a secluded look. Lisa went up the porch steps, Minnie following her, and rang the doorbell. It was opened smartly by a maidservant in cap and apron. She and Lisa recognised each other instantly.

  “Teresa!”

  “Lisa Shaw! Lumme! Come in quick. Who’s the kid? Cor? Minnie ain’t it?” She half pulled them into the house, exclaiming every word in surprise, and hugged them both in turn in her delight. “Visitors don’t usually call at the front of the ‘ouse at this time of day unless they’re strangers passing through town, or other right randy devils what don’t care who sees them. Local gents prefer the side door for admittance. You could ‘ave knocked me down with a feather when I saw you two on the doorstep.”

&n
bsp; Lisa and Minnie stared around them in amazement at the gaudy opulence of the hall in which they found themselves. Crimson silk panelled the walls, velvet drapes with gilt fringes framed archways, and an ornate staircase of marble and ormolu curved upwards to the floor above. Chandeliers, as yet unlit, sparkled gloriously in the dimness and the carpets underfoot were luxuriously soft in rich jewel colours.

  Beyond the door through which Teresa guided them, the house became commonplace and ordinary with broom and storage cupboards lining the passageway, which opened in turn into a large and comfortable kitchen. A fire burned cheerfully in the black range and plenty of polished saucepans reflected the glow through the grating.

  “Is this a palace you’re living in, Teresa?” Minnie asked with awe.

  Teresa became convulsed with mirth. “No, love. There ain’t no palaces in Canada that I know of, although the Madame that reigns over this ‘ouse ‘as more airs and graces than any queen in a crown.”

  Lisa, who had guessed immediately the business of the establishment from Teresa’s prattling, sat down in the chair that her friend had pushed forward. “How did you get here, Teresa?” she asked. “Did Mrs. Grant bring you to this house?”

  “No. I was pushed off the train at some place on the prairie where a family was waiting for me. They were ranchers, which means they raise cattle only, and they were kind folks. I did better than many of the girls. I’ve tales to tell about what happened to some of ‘em that would make anything that goes on under this roof seem like a vicarage garden party. ‘Alf the men what met them thought they were getting a wife to knock about and a farm ‘elper and a ‘arem slave all rolled into one. The other ‘alf were good men. They dressed themselves up in their best clothes to meet the train and were new shaven and shy and real nice. So I don’t blame the men as much as I blame Miss Drayton. She grabs in money ‘and over fist for sending nubile girls out to the West to end up anywhere, and I’ve figured out that all the time she’s using the charity as a shield for her private deals.”

  “That’s what I discovered for myself after a while. Nobody would listen to me. But I had the feeling when I travelled West now that Mrs. Grant was not at all sure when any more girls would be coming.” She went on to tell Teresa about the time she had spent in Toronto and how the surprising announcement had come that the house was to be closed. She also told Minnie’s story and how they had escaped to ride the rails to Calgary. Minnie sat silent throughout. Lisa had impressed upon her that they must never mention the train incident to anyone.

  “Maybe the truth about Miss Drayton ‘as come out,” Teresa said hopefully. Then she went on to explain that the loneliness of the ranch where she had lived first of all had been too much for her. Unlike some girls, she had received regular wages for her domestic work, and although it had been hoped that eventually she would be a bride to the son of the family, neither the rancher nor his wife had stood in her way when she expressed a wish to leave. She had travelled to Calgary where, hearing that a maidservant was wanted at the local brothel, she had taken the post as a stopgap and had been there ever since. “That’s why you got those letters from the two former ‘ome girls you mentioned. They’re travelling whores, going from place to place by train and with no permanent address. I was told by Rosie Taylor, who ‘ad ‘eard from somebody else that you was still at the Distribution ‘ome in Toronto, and that’s why they wrote to you and said to send your replies to me to keep for them.”

  “You’ve seen Rosie Taylor?” Lisa’s mind flew back to their orphanage days.

  “She’s in this ‘ouse. One of the girls. Now she was brought ‘ere direct by Mrs. Grant.” Teresa saw Lisa’s expression and flapped a hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for Rosie. She’s a real slut and took to being ‘ere like a duck to water by all accounts. Madame Ruby, who owns this place, looks after ‘er girls and they’re better off than most in this game, although they’re not allowed out. That’s the custom. Boredom makes them fight like wildcats with each other sometimes and Rosie don’t ‘elp by thieving and stirring up trouble. At least the travelling tarts see a bit of life, which is more than can be said for the little lot in this place.”

  “I’d like to see Rosie.”

  “That’s easily arranged. First of all, where are you staying?”

  “Nowhere yet. That’s why we came straight here from the railway station. I hoped that you would be able to recommend somewhere cheap and tell me where I can get work at once.”

  “I can arrange both if you wouldn’t mind doing the laundry ‘ere. The washerwoman is away sick and the bed linen is mounting up. Minnie could give you a ‘and and you could ‘ave two beds in the basement in the room next to mine. Your wages would be less, but you’d get three meals a day.”

  Lisa accepted without hesitation. “Can we move in now?” “Not so fast! You’ll ‘ave to see Madame Ruby first. I’ll go and ask ‘er.”

  *

  Madame Ruby, a big-framed, large bosomed woman with triple chins and yellow hair, came to the kitchen with Teresa in her wake to interview the temporary washerwoman. What she saw surprised her. Her calculating eye ran over the girl’s remarkably good points of appearance.

  “Are you sure it’s laundry work you want?” she queried speculatively. When Lisa nodded firmly, she did not press the point. “Hmm. You’re in my employ then. Don’t expect wages for the kid. She’ll get bed and board and that’s plenty.” After stating the small amount that Lisa would be paid, she outlined the work involved and then left Teresa to show the new arrivals their sleeping quarters and where the wash-house stood in the yard.

  Afterwards Teresa took Lisa upstairs to meet Rosie. Madame liked to keep the business section of her house entirely separate from the domestic quarters, and it was only because Teresa had to show Lisa the layout of the place for collecting laundry that she was able to be there at that hour. Although each girl had a room of her own, Lisa thought the accommodations would be better termed cubicles, with space for a bed and little else. She was introduced to those girls who were not otherwise occupied with a client, and all of them had fancy names. Rosie, however, had chosen to retain her own name and everything in her room was a bright rose pink with plenty of black lace. She was in black lace herself, lying smoking on the bed. Upon seeing Lisa she showed astonishment but no liking, all the old animosity of the past showing through.

  “See what the cat’s dragged in,” she said pithily in answer to Lisa’s greeting. Getting up from the bed, she looked Lisa’s simple and travel-worn attire up and down contemptuously. “You’ve not gone far up in the world, ‘ave you? The new washerwoman, eh? What ‘appened to all that fine reading you did? Waste of time, weren’t it? I’ll ‘ave you know I’m one of Madame Ruby’s top girls. All the clients I ‘ave are rich men. None of the hoi polloi for me.”

  Teresa interrupted. “Quit boasting, Rosie. Come on, Lisa.”

  Rosie’s final barb followed Lisa out of the room. “I like my sheets ironed proper with no creases. Remember that or I’ll ‘ave ‘em off the bed again and chuck ‘em back at you.”

  During the next few weeks Rosie did carry out her threat several times simply out of spite. Fortunately Madame Ruby, found out about it from Teresa and gave Rosie a forceful reprimand about wasting other people’s paid time, which put a stop to any further harassment.

  There was certainly enough work to be done without anything unnecessary being added to it. Lisa often thought that her daily routine had become much as it had been whenever she had been doing a stint in the orphanage wash-house, except that the bed linen was much finer, changed daily, and the garments came in the gaudiest silks and satins she had ever seen. Every day she stoked the fire under the copper, prodded the boiling linen with a soapy stick, rubbed at the washboard until her arms ached, rinsed in tubs and pegged wet washing endlessly on lines inside or outside according to the weather. Dust storms were what she dreaded most, for almost without warning they blew in from the prairie, gathering up more dust fro
m the sun-dried dirt roads and turned all the washing grey, necessitating the return of everything to the soapsuds.

  A chore from which there was never any respite was the ironing. Stacks of it were constantly replenished by Minnie, who gathered in whatever was ready for the irons heating on the stove. She was a strong and sturdy little worker, thriving on the good food provided and never shirking her allotted tasks. Whenever there was a breathing space, Lisa helped her with reading and writing and arithmetic. The child had had a basic grounding in the three Rs before leaving the orphanage, and it was a case of refreshing memory and picking up threads again. Lisa would have liked her to attend one of the local schools, but it seemed wise not to go anywhere or do anything that might attract attention. Here at Madame Ruby’s they were safe in their isolation, never seeing and rarely hearing whatever went on in the rest of the house during the hours when the doorbell kept ringing and the phonograph played.

  Once, when the phonograph broke down, Madame Ruby called Lisa from the wash-house to play the piano hidden by draped silken curtains in an alcove that led off the ornate reception hall. The woman had heard from Teresa that Lisa could read music and had played hymns at morning and evening prayers at the orphanage.

  “There you are,” Madame Ruby said, putting some sheet music in front of her at the piano. “Don’t play loud. Just tinkle the keys to give atmosphere. I’ll get that damned phonograph fixed later today.”

  The hour was eight-thirty in the morning. The girls, roused from heavy sleep after barely getting to bed, came tottering downstairs on their high heels in their thrown-on finery, yawning and with mascara-smudged eyes. Side by side they lined up in front of half a dozen rough, unshaven ranch-hands smelling pungently of horses and cattle. Lisa played away at the piano, tinkling tunes of the day while the selection took place. Those girls who were not chosen went thankfully back to bed on their own and Lisa returned to her washtub.