Days of Toil and Tears Read online

  “We live through the wall,” said Murdo. “There are seven of us.” Then he rattled off seven names which I do not remember except that he is the second oldest. Auntie Janet said that the Campbells are like a flights of stairs. The remarkable thing about Murdo is that he has the brightest red hair I’ve ever seen. In the sun it looked as though his head were on fire — half boy, half candle. Murdo said that he had been waiting for me to arrive. “All the rest of them are too small to be any use,” he said, “except Kathleen, and she’s too bossy. Isn’t it grand to have a day’s holiday?”

  I was not sure what I was to be of use for, but Auntie and Uncle seemed to be friendly with Murdo and he tagged right along with us, talking a mile a minute, cheerful as can be.

  We walked along past the railway station and then onto Bridge Street and Mill Street to the river. Auntie and Uncle pointed out all the buildings: boot maker, blacksmith, grocery store, dry goods store, hotel, tinsmith, drugstore, town hall, dentist, surgeon, post office and watchmaker. Next to the hotel was a long line of stables and carriage sheds. I like the sounds of horses — the jingling of harness and that sneezing sound they make with their noses. Murdo told stories about who lives where and which shopkeepers are kind and which are mean.

  When we got to the town hall, which is very grand, Murdo pointed out the electric light and Uncle James laughed and said all the courting couples meet there. “It’s a spooning light,” he said and Auntie Janet laughed and Murdo groaned.

  Then we got to the river. It is splendid. It is called the Mississippi (when you are writing that word it is hard to know when to stop) and it has a tremendous waterfall. The water comes down the river looking lazy and smooth and then when it gets to the falls it turns white and boiling and racing. I thought of horses with great white manes.

  Murdo tried to explain how the power of the river turns the wheel, which is the power for all the machines in the woollen mill. He was very enthusiastic and he started talking about overshot wheels and undershot wheels and I didn’t understand it at all, but Auntie told me I would see it on Monday, which was time enough to be thinking about the mill.

  On the way home we bought some groceries and then Murdo disappeared to play baseball and Uncle James went off to go fishing.

  Auntie and I went home and had a cup of tea. She showed me her knitting project, a sweater for Uncle James. I told her that I knew how to knit socks, even to turning the heels, because Matron was very stern about girls learning to knit. Auntie was very impressed. She found some grey wool, suitable for socks, and some needles for me, and suggested we take our work outside.

  We walked to the other side of the river and found a place to sit in the sun, looking across at the mill. It looks like a huge castle, with the sun shining on the windows and the river like a moat. I thought of a princess living in the castle. She would have a whole room full of gowns, in all the colours of the autumn leaves. Crimson, golden, fiery orange, yellowy-green and bright pink. She would have a different crown for every day of the week.

  As we knitted, Auntie told me a story. It was about a bairn (that’s a baby), who was stolen away by the fairies. The mother was beside herself with grief. But a wise woman told her to make a cloak that was so beautiful that she could trade it for her baby. Luckily the woman was a weaver. She wove a cloak from goose down. It was so soft and white it could have been a cloud caught from the sky. Then, using her own golden hair, she wove in a border of flowers and fruits and magical beasts. The fairies were so taken with this cloak that they were lured into returning the baby. It all ended happily.

  Auntie is a wonderful storyteller. She makes magic as everyday as parsnips. After a few minutes I was in two places at once — Almonte and the land where fairies are. I asked her how she could remember stories so well and she told me that she learned the stories from her grandmother. “You remember the things you heard when you were small,” she said. She told me about her grandmother, who is my great-grandmother, and how she came from Scotland to Canada on a great ship. “They could not bring much with them, but the stories were light.” She said that she liked that story because the heroine was a weaver, just like Uncle James.

  I liked the cloak in the story. I could see it in my mind. I also liked what the wise woman said to the mother: “My wisdom is only as old as man, but the wisdom of the fairies is older than the beginning of the world.” Alice would like this story too. I wonder what she is doing at this minute.

  When we got home we met another family that lives in our building. They are just two. Granny Whitall lives with her grandson, who is a grown-up man. She takes care of small children, like the small Campbells, when their parents work at the mill. Auntie Janet said that even though Granny Whitall is very old she is still wonderful at sewing, just needing help with threading the needles.

  Fish for dinner.

  There is one more thing about the day, but my hand is just too tired to write.

  May 29, in the morning

  Dear Papa and Mama,

  Again I’m awake before Auntie and Uncle. So I will tell you the one last thing from yesterday.

  In the evening Auntie Janet went into a trunk and brought out a Bible. Inside the front cover are written the names of the family, from now and long ago. The first name I noticed was my own. Flora Rutherford, b. 1875. Alongside were the names of my three brothers, who died as infants. Above it were your names, William Rutherford, b. 1851 d. Oct. 1881, and Sarah Dow, b. 1855, m. William Rutherford 1873, d. Oct. 1881. A sadness came upon me on reading those names. I think of you every day, but I think of you as angels. Seeing your names in the Bible made me think of you alive and walking on the earth with all the other people.

  Auntie Janet pointed out the name of Martha Dow, her grandmother: b. 1802 Glasgow, Scotland, d. 1873, Pakenham Township, Ontario, Canada. “There she is, the one who told the stories.”

  Auntie Janet told me that Granny Dow knew more stories than there are days in a year. “They just came out of her mouth like water over a millrace,” she said. “She was a tiny wee woman, but when she told stories she could quiet a whole room of great big men. I think she had the stories from the fairies themselves. She always said it was a pity that the fairies were disappearing because of us building great cities and driving them away.”

  I ran my fingers over the lovely loopy writing and thought about all those people in the olden days.

  When Uncle James came home he said that it was fleece-scouring night. “We’ll dip you in the carbolic,” he said, “and get you ready for the carding room.” But Auntie Janet said that he wasn’t to terrify me with such talk and that all he meant was that it was bath night. Which is one thing that is the same as at the Home.

  There’s that baby crying again, through the wall. It must be a Campbell. Probably teething. Sun’s up so I’m going to get up and be helpful. I watched Uncle James yesterday and now I think I know how to light the stove.

  May 29, in the evening

  Dear Papa and Mama,

  So much is new that if I were to write about it all I would not have time to be living it through, but only writing about it! I made the tea this morning and had it ready when Auntie got up. She said she felt like Queen Victoria.

  I know you will want to know about church. Auntie and Uncle go to St. John’s Church. It was grand, walking into church just with Auntie and Uncle, and not in a line the way we did from the Home, with everyone staring at us.

  Last night I thanked God for Auntie and Uncle and this morning I thanked Him again and asked Him to give me a grateful heart.

  Most things about church, like the words and the hymns and the books, were the same. Just like in Kingston there were girls my age with nice dresses and just like in Kingston they did not look friendly. The most surprising and different thing was the sermon. The minister was not the regular minister, but a visitor. He preached on the text “the labourer is worthy of his hire.” But he did not just talk about Bible times. He talked about now and he said something about
how his blood boiled when he saw wealthy men “grinding their employees in the dirt.” He had a great black beard and his beard started to move up and down more and more when he said things like, “beastly, diabolical doctrine.” He is very different from Rev. Pollock at home, who always spoke very softly and only about Bible times.

  On the walk home Auntie said that she thought the minister was too fierce and she hoped he wasn’t talking about Mr. Flanagan, who owns the mill, because Mr. Flanagan is a decent man and doesn’t grind the mill workers in the dirt, but pays good wages. But Uncle said that the minister had spoken a lot of good sense, and besides, he liked a sermon that didn’t put him to sleep. Then Uncle asked if Auntie liked the minister’s whiskers and perhaps he should grow a fine beard like that, and Auntie said that she would not like it one bit because she would not care to kiss a man with whiskers. I agree.

  In the afternoon Auntie put together a big pot of beans to last us all week. She says that there isn’t much time for cooking in the week so she cooks a big pot of something on Sunday afternoon.

  After supper Auntie said she wanted to ask me a favour. She seemed shy to ask and I could not imagine what it could be. Running an errand? Sewing? Scrubbing? As it turned out, she wanted me to read aloud to her and Uncle James. “Mr. Campbell usually shares his newspaper with us,” she said, “but James doesn’t read, and I’m not good at reading aloud. We thought you might be.” She pulled out The Almonte Gazette.

  I wanted to do it, but I faced a dilemma. Was it right to read a newspaper on Sundays? Matron would not let us read anything but Bible stories on Sundays, and a book about being good called The Peep of Day. I did not know what to say.

  Auntie Janet saw right away that something was wrong and she just asked me straight out so I told her. Then we three all talked about it and decided that I would read aloud from the Bible first and then I would read the newspaper. When we talked about it Uncle James and Auntie Janet really listened to what I had to say. Is this what happens in families?

  I asked what I should read from the Bible and Uncle James said, right away, that it should be Judges, Chapter 6. This was a story about a man called Gideon and it had sheep fleeces in it. A bit hard to read with words like Abi-ezrite, but I did my best. Auntie Janet teased Uncle James that he only attends to the Bible reading when there is something about sheep and wool. Uncle James said that that wasn’t true. He said that he always attends with one ear. It is just that when there is something about wool or weaving or fishing or something else that he knows about, he attends with both ears. I know just what he means. I attend with one ear almost all the time (except when I’m daydreaming, such as when the lesson is about begats or smiting), but when there is mention of an angel I get both ears working. Angels and fairies are my favourite things in stories. (And princesses.)

  Then I read some parts of the newspaper. A boy was attacked by a dog. There was a fire in Irishtown. Maple syrup costs a dollar a gallon.

  Uncle James says that I am such a good reader that I could be a minister myself if I would only grow a beard. I know he is being comical, but it still made me feel very happy. I don’t recall that anybody has ever told me I am good at something.

  Right before bed Auntie said she had to talk to me about something very important. She looked so stern that I wondered if I had done something wrong. But she was not angry, just serious. She told me that when I am working at the mill I must always be careful. She told me that the machinery is dangerous. “All mill accidents are bad accidents,” she said, “and it only takes a moment’s inattention. Promise me that you will always pay attention, watch where you are going, and never never run.” I promised.

  And now to sleep. Tomorrow will be my first day as a doffer girl. I asked Auntie and Uncle to be sure to wake me up early early, but they smiled and said I needn’t worry about that and I would find out why in the morning.

  May 30

  Dear Papa and Mama,

  Now I understand why I did not need to be routed out in the morning. I was fast asleep when the noise of bells got into my dream. (It was a very curious dream about my teeth falling out. When they fell on the ground they made a little ringing noise. This was not frightening, just odd.) But then my teeth jumped right back into my head in a great hurry when I awoke to the sound of bells filling the air. When Auntie Janet put her head round the curtain she was laughing. “Welcome to Almonte,” she said, “town of mill bells.”

  Auntie Janet told Uncle James that he had to make the porridge because she had another important job. And he pretended to be cross. She took no notice. Then she braided my hair. She said I needed to have it pulled back to work at the mill because otherwise it is dangerous — loose hair could get caught in the machinery. She was very gentle with the brushing and the braiding. I almost fell back to sleep. My hair has always been a trial, for it is thick and the kind of curly that tangles easily. One of the first things I remember from the Home is a nurse brushing my hair so roughly that I thought she was going to scalp me. She called it “wicked gypsy hair.” But Auntie Janet said it was lovely and Uncle James said it was like a number-one quality fleece and I had better watch out when I walked through the wool sorting room.

  Auntie Janet made two braids and then she made rings of them. I’ve never had this before, tidy and pretty both. With her own hair she did this twisting thing and it all ended up in a neat roll on the top of her head.

  We had porridge (Uncle James can also make it without lumps) and Auntie packed bread and cheese into three pails and then we set off. First we walked along the road by the railway tracks, tracks on one side and rail sheds on the other. There were birds singing and flowers in the grass. As soon as we got onto Mill Street there was a river of people, all going to work. Some people were walking and talking cheerfully and some looked as though they were still asleep or wished to be. This is just like the Home. There are people who like to get up early and people who like to stay up late. Matron was like a bird in the morning, poking her beak into everything. Cook was like a slow turtle. And grumpy first thing.

  On Mill Street I heard running steps and Murdo came up alongside. He told me that I looked like a proper mill girl with my lunch pail and all. We stopped for a minute on the bridge. The waterfall, roaring and bubbling white over the rocks, was sending jewels of water into the air. But then the mill bell began to ring again and Uncle James said we had to hurry. We walked by two mills and some of the river of people went in those gates and then a red-painted building that Auntie told me was a knitting mill, where they make long underwear. “They call it Big Red,” said Murdo. Finally we went down a little hill to the Almonte Woollen Mill No. 1, which is OUR mill.

  It looked even taller close up — bigger than a train station, bigger than a church. There was a crowd of people mingling outside, men and women, some boys and girls too. Auntie Janet greeted many of them and they said, “So this is Flora.”

  This all takes longer to write about than to walk as it is only about fifteen minutes distance. Auntie says it seems long enough on a bitter dark winter morning. But it is so hard to imagine winter in summer. As hard to imagine sad when you’re happy. And the other way round is true too. Why is that? Now I haven’t

  May 31

  Dear Papa and Mama,

  The letter from yesterday ended in the middle of a sentence because I fell asleep. Auntie Janet said I just fell forward onto my notebook. She had to get me out of my clothes and put me to bed just as though I were a baby. I do remember being tired. I was tired in my arms and tired in my mind. The clattering noise of the machines made it hard to fix my mind on learning new things. I am determined to do everything well and not disappoint Auntie Janet. Tonight I am not so tired, so I will finish my story about Flora’s first day:

  At seven o’clock a loud bell rang and we all went in. Uncle James headed off up the stairs and Murdo and some other boys ran across the yard toward a shed. Auntie and I stopped at an office. There was a man wearing a suit sitting at a desk. The man asked
me my name and he wrote it in a big book. Then he said that he knew I would be a good worker because Auntie and Uncle were excellent operatives. Then he said that Auntie was to take me to see Mr. Haskin. Then Auntie said thank you and I said thank you. As we started up the stairs I asked Auntie if the man was Mr. Flanagan who owns the mill, and she laughed. “No,” she said, “the likes of us don’t see too much of Mr. Flanagan, especially at seven o’clock in the morning. That was Mr. Boothroyd.”

  We went up and up the stairs. We stopped at the fourth floor to look into the weaving room where Uncle works. I didn’t know it would be so noisy. The big machines make a great bang and clatter. There were many men and women working and I saw Uncle, but he didn’t look up to see us.

  Then we went up one more flight and came to the spinning room. The room is very large with tall windows all along one side. Long belts loop down from the high ceiling and are attached to machinery. It was noisy in that room too, but more of a loud hum that just goes on and on. Not so much of a clatter. It seemed to be all women in that room and they looked up at me as I came in. Some smiled.

  The room was very warm, which felt good early in the morning, but not by noon. I wondered why we could not open the windows, but Auntie said it needs to be warm and damp so the threads do not break. The air was filled with bits of wool, like a snowstorm. The women have wool clinging to their clothes and their hair. If you stayed there long enough you would start to look like a sheep.

  Another man in a suit came up to us. Mr. Haskin. Everything about him was thin, even his nose and lips. He and Auntie talked, but I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. So I just nodded and tried to look like an excellent operative.

  Auntie took me over to the spinning machine. It is a wonder. There is a frame that stays in one place and a carriage that moves back and forth on rails. It all looks a bit like a dance. The machine pulls out the threads, many at a time, and makes them thinner and at the same time it twists them to make them strong. In the olden days women would spin at spinning wheels and they could only make one thread at a time.