Читать книгу Whatever Happened to Mary Janeway? - Mary Pettit - Страница 12

Mrs. B. Gets Sick

“By the turn of the century electricity was becoming a normal part of city life.”[1]

1903

Living at #440 wasn’t always easy. Although Mrs. B. was fussy about whom she “took in,” a certain amount of tension was expected among boarders in a rooming house. When things got harried, Mary would go to her room and curl up on her bed with a book. Thanks to the electric light bulb, she could read well into the night with far more safety than candlelight.

She decided that living in the city had its advantages, like being close to the library, having mail delivery, and a newspaper left at your door six days a week. Even though she didn’t get any letters and it was usually yesterday’s news by the time she got the paper, it was still better than being on the farm. She could always find a magazine lying around with glossy advertisements of the latest gadgets and beauty creams.

Mary also enjoyed trade cards, the hand-delivered colourful cards that expounded on the wonders of a product. She was intrigued by the things that someone would dream up to sell and the promises made on the little cards dropped at Mrs. B.’s door. By today’s standards a great number of these trade cards would be considered in poor taste. Black people were often pictured in a derogatory way and even something as innocent as “Daisy Rubbers,” footwear for the rainy season in 1902, would have a different connotation by the twenty-first century.

By far the most exciting invention was the horseless carriage. Mrs. B. got talking to Mary about the “motor vehicle craze” one Sunday afternoon. “I can tell you that the first man in Canada to buy one lived in Hamilton. I can’t recall his name but I remember one paper said it cost him a thousand dollars and another one claimed it was sixteen hundred. Either way that was a lot of money five years ago.” Mrs. B. was referring to John Moodie, the Hamiltonian who bought the first four-wheeled gasoline-propelled motor vehicle to be owned and operated in this country. The little one-cylinder Winton was manufactured in Cleveland and could do twenty-five miles an hour.

Moodie’s Winton was one of only twenty-one hand-crafted vehicles produced by Winton Motor Carriage Company Cleveland in 1898, their first year of production.

Hamilton Public Library, Local History and Archives.

“Have you ever been in one, Mrs. B?”

“A motor vehicle?” she asked. Mary nodded. “No, I don’t know anyone that well-to-do, and besides, I wouldn’t trust it anyway.”

“I would,” Mary replied, sipping her tea. “It looks like fun.”

Mrs. B. smiled. She enjoyed Mary’s company and wished she could have paid her more. She encouraged her to look for a part-time job. Mary found one minding the Parson girls around the corner on Kent Street while their mother taught singing lessons in the local church basement three evenings a week. She’d heard that Mrs. Parson told the children to “practice ’till you’re blue in the face and blood spurts out of your nose,” and was glad she wasn’t one of her students. She enjoyed Jessie, the six-year old, but two-year old Larissa was another story. Once in a while their dad would come home from work early and he’d let the girls do whatever they wanted.

“Where are my little angels?” he’d ask, and they’d immediately pop out of bed.

“Mrs. Parson wanted them in bed at seven, sir.”

“Mrs. Parson isn’t here. Girls, wouldn’t you like to stay up and keep your dad company?” Naturally they’d squeal with delight.

“Can we have a treat, Papa?” Larissa would croon in her father’s ear. He always complied, knowing full well that his wife was strict with candy and never allowed it before bed.

Mary preferred babysitting when he wasn’t around but knew better than to complain. Jobs were difficult to find and it meant an extra twenty-five cents a week. Time passed quickly and she was content for almost two years when her life took a sudden turn.

She was walking home from babysitting one night in late November, enjoying the Christmas lights folks had wrapped around their verandas. As she approached Mrs. B.’s house, she knew that something was wrong. Instead of just the single porch light and soft glow from a hurricane lamp in the front room, there were lights on everywhere. A pale, agitated Mrs. Wyse greeted her at the door.

“I have bad news Mary. Mrs. Balfour was taken to the hospital a little while ago. She took a spell.”

“What do you mean a spell?”

“We don’t know yet, dear,” she said, gently putting her arm around her. Mary felt numb inside but managed to save her tears until she got to her room. For most of her eighteen years she’d remained aloof from others but she’d grown to care deeply for the lady she called Mrs. B.

Mrs. B. stayed in the hospital two and a half weeks. Mary, with the help of Mrs. Wyse, ran the boarding house, making sure the rents were collected on time. The doctor said that she’d had a stroke but was lucky it hadn’t been too serious. Before she was discharged, Dr. Phillips came to see her.

“Let this be a warning sign to slow down, Jenny, and let others do the work.”

“Should I be selling my house and moving in with my daughter?” she asked.

“I think it’s time.” Mrs. B. had placed Dr. Phillips on a pedestal four years ago when he’d been there for her after she lost her son. She wouldn’t think of questioning his advice nor would she let anyone else. She spoke to Mary the day before her house went on the market.

“Let’s have some tea,” she said, having waited until everyone else had left the kitchen. Mrs. B. poured her famous blackcurrant tea from the dainty pink rosebud teapot and handed Mary her cup. “This isn’t easy for me but I have to face facts. Dr. Phillips wants me to move in with Martha. He thinks it’s time I slowed down.”

Mary tried to steady her hand as she set her teacup on the table. She vaguely remembered a similar situation when her father had told her that he couldn’t cope after their mother had died and some of them were being sent to an orphanage. Mary had only been five at the time but it had been a traumatic experience that she’d never forget. Mrs. B.’s words reminded her that she was being abandoned all over again.

“I’ve given a lot of thought to you,” Mrs. B. said quietly. “After all, you’re the reason I was able to stay here as long as I have. An old friend of mine, Lottie McKinnell, who lives in Woodstock, came to visit me in the hospital. She told me that a friend of a friend is looking for kitchen help. I thought of you right away. It would mean moving to Woodstock, but I’ve heard it’s a nice town. Sleep on it a night or two, dear. In any case, it’ll take me a while to sell my house.”

Mrs. B. asked a fair price and #440 was sold within a few weeks, which meant that Mary had to find a new place to live after Christmas. She had no choice but to accept the position that Mrs. B.’s friend had offered her.

“You’ll do fine. You’re a bright girl and I know they’ll like you.”

“It’s not the job I’m worried about; it’s missing you, Mrs. B.” Mary replied.

“I feel the same way, but I’m an old woman now and need to be taken care of,” she handed her a paper. “Here’s my daughter’s address in Toronto. You can always come to visit me.”

“I’d like that very much,” Mary said, pocketing the slip of paper. They both knew it would never happen, but somehow it made saying goodbye a little easier. Gradually the boarders moved out. Mary kept hoping that something would make Mrs. B. change her mind, but it was not to be.

She packed her things and left early Thursday morning, the last day of December. As she headed down the street in the direction of the GTR station, she turned back to wave to Mrs. B. But this time she wasn’t standing on the front porch or looking out the window. She was already gone and Mary knew there was absolutely no reason for her to stay.