Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  “I missed you too,” said Mary. “I’d better get home. I’m so tired!”

  Tired though she may have been, Cassie saw her best friend skip a few times as she walked away up the street.

  * * *

  Cassie was out on the street every day the strike bulletin was published — which was every single day. She began to feel at home on the street after just a few days, calling out to pedestrians, talking to them, selling them papers. She wasn’t sure she understood what the papers said yet. But she definitely understood how important the strike bulletin was, because as soon as she brought her papers to the corner, people flocked to her like pigeons around someone with a bag of breadcrumbs.

  Some people didn’t have nickels, just quarters, so Cassie had to make change. Sometimes when she ran out of change, she would ask Freddy for some. If they both ran out at the same time, Cassie kept an eye on Freddy’s papers while he dashed into the nearby CV Cafe for nickels.

  People soon got to know her, and would say, “Good morning, Cassie. How’s business today?” and “How many papers have you sold today?” A few times men driving horse-drawn wagons stopped for a moment at the curb and leant out for Cassie to sell them a strike bulletin. On Thursday, a horse turned around and nipped her arm as she handed its driver his change. She was more afraid of the frisky horses than she was of any of the rich kids Billy had warned her about. She felt perfectly safe with her brother directing traffic not a hundred yards away. It was easy to see why the police had decided to keep working; if Billy ever left his spot in the middle of the intersection, the cars and wagons could get in an awful mess.

  On the morning of Friday, May 30, it was terribly windy. Cassie tried to hold her skirt down with one hand and sell papers with the other. Her hair was coming loose and blowing in wisps around her face, which was getting browner every day she stood out in the sun. The bulletin she held up said:

  WHAT WE WANT

  The Demands of the Strikers are:

  1. The Right of Collective Bargaining

  2. A Living Wage

  3. Reinstatement of All Strikers

  WHAT WE DO NOT WANT

  1. Revolution

  2. Dictatorship

  3. Disorder

  Freddy had gone for change, but he was taking a long time to come back. Cassie was handing out papers to all the reaching hands holding nickels, then suddenly noticed hands reaching out to her without any money in them. She looked up and found herself surrounded by boys in peaked tweed caps like Freddy’s and suits with vests, like little grownups. They seemed to want to paw at her. Cassie pulled away, frightened.

  “Look at her!” they taunted. “Look at the papergirl! Thinks she’s a boy!”

  “Yeah, have you heard her holler?” A boy mimicked her in a high dainty girlish falsetto, “Paper, mister, here’s a pretty, itty-bitty paper for you!”

  “Bet your dad’s a Red,” another boy said. “Bet you’re one of the Bolshies.”

  “He is not!” Cassie protested. Her voice was so high it almost squeaked. She realized she was scared. “My dad’s a policeman! He’s protecting you!”

  “Ha!” said an especially tall, thin boy who seemed bolder than the others. Cassie looked up at his face and her stomach sank. Of all the people to come by — this was Barbara MacKenzie’s older brother, Nick. He had a reputation at school for being a terrible snob and a bully. “My dad says that even the police are Red in Winnipeg.” Nick opened his jacket and stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Your dad’s either a Red or an alien. My dad says the government’s going to throw all the aliens out of the country.”

  “My dad is not an alien!” Cassie shouted.

  “Sure he is. I bet he eats perogies, reeks of garlic, and he no spikka da Inglish too good. My dad says the aliens want to start a revolution.”

  “My dad is British!”

  “Oho!” said all the boys at once, trading knowing looks.

  “British, hm? So what does Nick the Stick think about Brits? Tell us, Nick, can Brits be trusted?”

  “If he’s a Brit, he could be an anarchist or an agitator. Or a socialist. Oh, any number of terrible things,” said Nick the Stick.

  “My dad is NOT terrible! How dare you!” screamed Cassie, sticking out her chin. With one eye, she looked across to see if Billy had noticed she was surrounded, but he was too busy, and the blustery winds were probably drowning out the sound of her voice. She wondered how defiant she should get.

  “Listen,” growled Nick the Stick. “My old man is a big shot in the Committee of One Thousand.”

  Cassie knew that well enough. Nick clearly didn’t recognize her as his sister’s rival, though.

  He continued, “My dad and his friends are letting you sell those papers out of the goodness of their hearts. Let’s see one of those, anyway.” He grabbed a paper from Cassie’s hand and held it up for his friends to see. They all pressed in to read it. “‘What we want — A living wage,’” Nick read in a sneering voice. “As if they’re not already getting too much! ‘What we do not want. Revolution. Dictatorship. Disorder.’ Hah! That’s exactly what they want! They want to take over! Well, Miss Brit, your strike is worth just as much as this!” He took the rock off Cassie’s pile of carefully folded papers and kicked them over, and the wind took the whole lot of them and whirled them along the street, so that they clung to people’s legs and got trodden underfoot by horses’ hooves. A draft carried them up towards the corniced buildings above, where they floated and soared like gulls over the river.

  “Get those back! Those are important!” Cassie yelled, tears in her eyes. The papers floated off down the street, whirling around with the dust. One flattened itself over a well-dressed man’s face. He plucked it off, and when saw what it was, he made a disgusted face and then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it away. Cassie ran after the papers, trying to catch them, and she could hear the boys’ laughter following her. She gave up trying to chase the papers and turned back to the group of boys.

  “See that bluecoat?” she roared, livid with rage. Cassie was using her ultimate weapon. “He’s not a Red! He’s my big brother!” She pointed at Billy, who just then finally noticed what was happening. He halted traffic in both directions and began to run to her rescue. The boys’ eyes widened. Sympathetic strikers nearby had started to pick up the crumpled papers for Cassie. She wasn’t afraid anymore.

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried Nick the Stick. The boys raced away into the crowded street, bumping against people who turned and watched them disappear. Some people came up to Cassie and offered her the crumpled papers, but they were beyond reading. Cassie sat down on the sidewalk with her chin in her hands as Billy approached.

  “Guess I’m too late, eh? You hurt?” She shook her head. All the traffic was waiting, motors running, horses pawing the pavement. “Sorry, Cass. Got to get back. Talk later!” He ran back to his position and waved the Main Street traffic through.

  Freddy sauntered up, hands in his pockets.

  “And where have you been?” Cassie asked angrily.

  “Had a soda,” he said blithely. “Why? Something wrong?”

  “Something wrong? I’ll say. I just lost practically all my papers because of your rich bosses’ snotty kids. I bet I lost five dollars’ worth.”

  “That’s what happens to people who rock the boat,” said Freddie, grinning. “They get pushed around by people who’re stronger. That’s why I always toe the line. Yes sir, no sir, right away sir. Besides …” Freddy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “D’y’know what they’d do to me if they found out I was the dreaded alien? Beat me into a pulp, that’s what. Dry me up and blow me away. So I’m quiet. Verr-rry quiet. And Nick the Stick don’t bother me none.” He patted Cassie on the shoulder. “Chin up, kid.”

  As he strolled back to his spot to sell papers, Cassie glared at him. He knew it was Nick the
Stick bothering her — that meant he’d seen the whole thing and stayed inside on purpose. And she thought they’d become friends, or at least friendly. She picked up her rock and walked forlornly home.

  The house was so quiet with her mother out working. Cassie sat down at the kitchen table and opened her little purse. Eleven nickels and one quarter. That made eighty cents, or sixteen papers. And she’d started out with a hundred papers. She owed the strike committee four dollars and twenty cents. Not much less than a whole day’s wages for her father.

  She felt as though her stomach was eating her heart. She’d never be able to pay all this money back. The strikers had trusted her and she’d let them down.

  Suddenly she heard the click of the back door opening and her mother rushed in.

  “Oh, my dear girl. What happened? Tell me everything.”

  “What are you doing here?” Cassie’s heart was lifting just seeing her mother. Mrs. Hopkins bustled to get Cassie a glass of milk while she answered.

  “A boy, a skinny little thing, came running to the café saying there was an emergency for a Mrs. Hopkins. I couldn’t believe it, of course, but he said you were all right but that I was needed at home. Someone had sent him … Frankie? Teddy?”

  Freddy had sent someone to get her mother? Right after throwing her to the wolves?

  “Anyway, Mrs. Armstrong said I could come right home. You must tell me what happened.”

  Cassie took a drink of milk. It was off, a bit warm. She grimaced and then told her mother of the morning’s events. As she was finishing, Billy rushed in, out of breath.

  “I got somebody to stand in for me to lead the traffic orchestra,” he said. “I was too late. I’m so sorry, Cassie. How much did you lose?”

  “Four dollars and twenty cents’ worth.” Cassie sat glumly staring at the floor. It was awful to be in debt. “They’ll never let me sell the strike bulletin again.”

  “Oh, come on,” chided Billy, lifting up her chin so that her brown eyes looked straight into his blue ones. “It’s not the end of the world. The strike committee doesn’t have a heart of stone. And unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this has happened. They’ll know it’s not your fault.”

  “What?” said Mrs. Hopkins. “You said our Cassie would be perfectly safe selling the bulletin. Now you say it’s dangerous?”

  “It’s not exactly dangerous. Cassie, those boys didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “No. And I’m not afraid of them.” Cassie straightened her shoulders. “They just made me furious, that’s all! All those good papers, all that work by the strike committee. Ruined. Think of all the people who might’ve bought the bulletin today and found out what was happening. Now they won’t know! It was an important one, too. Letting people know that we aren’t trying to have a revolution, that all we want is fairness.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Hopkins. “I read a copy in the café. Which, by the way, you’re about to start working at.”

  “But —”

  “No. I won’t hear another word. You do not belong on the streets, it’s not safe. You can come chop onions and sweep the floors along with Mary, or you can go back to school.”

  Cassie sat as tall as she could, trying desperately to seem mature. She spoke as evenly as she could. “I know the café does important work, and I’m so glad you and Mary and her mother are working there. But I’ve gotten so good at selling the bulletin this week, you know I have. The customers know me! And the paper is how we can convince everyone in Winnipeg and all over the country that we’re striking for the right reasons. Please, please let me keep selling it.”

  “It’s my fault more than the streets’,” interrupted Billy. “I should’ve been watching more closely. Cassie’s been handling everything so well that I haven’t been checking up on her enough. But I will, Mum, I promise. Give our papergirl a second chance, will you?”

  Mrs. Hopkins’s shoulders were slowly retreating from around her ears, and her face was a little less red than it had been. “One more chance,” she said. “All right? One more. But I won’t have my girl in a fray. I am proud of you, love. I know you’re working hard; even Mrs. Armstrong has noticed. But if anything else happens, you’re into the café with me and Mary.”

  Cassie nodded.

  Billy’s run home was catching up with him and he began dabbing the sweat off his forehead. “Mum, could I have a glass of milk too?” he said.

  Mrs. Hopkins took the milk bottle out of the icebox and poured Billy a glass. He took a drink and frowned.

  “It’s warm!”

  “The ice has melted. There’s just a weeny piece left. Somebody’ll have to go to the ice company with the wagon and get us a piece before the milk turns.”

  “I’ll go.” Cassie sighed. It was a long way, and she was so tired from the morning’s dramatic events, but somebody had to do it.

  She wondered what Nick the Stick was drinking right now. Nice cold milk? Rich people could pick up ice in their cars when there was no delivery.

  “Warm milk,” Billy said thoughtfully, staring at his full glass. “I don’t like it. But if warm milk is the price of social justice, I’ll happily pay it.” He raised the glass to his lips, gulped the liquid down, then ran his tongue across his lip to lick off his milk moustache.

  He clearly felt this was a very noble act, but he was just as clearly holding in a shudder at the warm milk. She didn’t mention it. Instead, she asked, “What exactly does justice mean? The courts?”

  “Ah. Justice. It’s one of the most important things there is, Cassie. Some people think it doesn’t exist. Have you ever heard anyone say there’s no justice? ‘There’s no justice,’ they say, and shake their heads. It just means they haven’t experienced it. I believe you have to live it to know what justice means. When it happens to you, you know. You’ll find out.”

  “When?”

  “Well, you just never know.” He got up, put on his helmet, and went out the door.

  He really could be maddening.

  Just as he went out, Mr. Hopkins, wearing street clothes, came in. He sat down heavily and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. It was getting warmer and warmer out.

  “What did you find out at the meeting?” Mrs. Hopkins asked.

  “Well,” Mr. Hopkins heaved a great sigh, and winced as he straightened out his gammy leg. “I might not be working much longer after what happened today. The police commissioners — our bosses, Cassie — gave us an ultimatum. They said we had to swear not to take part in the strike. If we did, we’d be fired. So, do you know what the union did?”

  “I bet I do!” cried Cassie, forgetting her own losses. “They said they wouldn’t do it, didn’t they?”

  “Well, it kind of looks that way.”

  “Hooray!” cheered Cassie.

  “Blimey, sometimes I think the union’s got beans for brains. This strike is getting us bloody nowhere!

  Mrs. Hopkins gasped. “David!” she exclaimed. “Don’t swear!”

  “I’ll bloody well swear if I bloody well want to!” Mr. Hopkins was steaming. Cassie had never seen her father like this. There was definitely something wrong. “Everybody, everybody thinks we’ve done a bloody fine job. But if we keep supporting the strikers, they’ll force us off the streets and bring in the army. The whole force is calling it the Slave Pact. They say only a slave could sign it. I can’t help it. I’ve tossed in my lot with the strikers. I may not be a copper in future, luvvy,” he said, looking at Mrs. Hopkins.

  “I’m with the strikers too!” cried Cassie. She felt a hot flush rise in her cheeks.

  But her mother looked worried. “As long as no one’s hurt,” she said quietly. “You know, David, it’s hard to believe how insensitive people can be. Do you know what happened this morning before I had to come home? The owner of the Strathcona Hotel came in, fancy as you please, right as we were starting to wo
rk for the day, and told us he doesn’t want us to use his kitchen and dining room anymore. The Citizens’ Committee is putting pressure on him. Mrs. Armstrong argued with him, told him how many girls we’ve been feeding and how many families we’ve been helping, but he just wouldn’t change his mind. Told us we have to find another place. Well, Mrs. Armstrong thinks she’s got the Oxford Hotel, which has an even bigger dining room, so he can take his kitchen and stick it where —” She seemed to notice Cassie was still there and stopped. After a pause, she brightened. “The Oxford is right near Portage and Main, convenient for everybody. Perhaps it’ll all work out. I’ll be able to keep an eye on our papergirl, anyway.”

  “Perhaps it’ll work out,” agreed Mr. Hopkins. “But truly, it doesn’t look too hopeful. I don’t think the Citizens’ Committee wants to settle this strike at all. They’re not getting together with the strike committee to work things out. They want to break the strike to crush us, to not give us anything at all, keep things exactly the same forever. Our grandchildren will be working themselves to the bone for no money too if the Citizens’ Committee have their way. I’m sure of it.”

  After her experiences today, Cassie had to agree.

  CHAPTER 7

  The very next day, Cassie walked to Portage and Main with Mary. The Labour Café had moved overnight and was up and running already in the Oxford. Freddy seemed surprised to see Cassie with her pile of papers.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. If it isn’t Miss Bolshie, back to face the music,” he said in awe.

  Cassie could feel Mary stiffen beside her.

  “Yes it is, Mr. Alien,” Cassie said airily.

  “Sh!” whispered Freddy in alarm, looking over his shoulder. “You’ll give me away.”

  “Not as much as sending a runner to get my mother might’ve,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head and began sucking on the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you hear about the police? They’ve been given twenty-four hours to decide whether to support the strike or not. If they do, whoops, no police. And that’s what the Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand wants. It wants to bring in the army.”