May 23/1898
5:45am, just before the sun rose above the eastern horizon that was the home to Anne’s family, Tecumseh, Anne herself rose, disgruntled and sticky from the night’s humid air. It was all too known that Windsor only had two seasons; summer and winter. Residents of this newly appointed city may receive the occasional treat or tease, whichever one prefers, by enjoying a lovely day of spring or fall temperatures coupled with the breathtaking sights and smells of either season. All that; however, did not bother Anne this early morning. Rising an hour earlier than she was used to for the plain purpose of folding paper flowers in preparation of the Victoria Day celebrations of the morrow was just enough to send her already delicate mood into the depths of darkness. Peeling herself off the pillow and damp sheets she slowly straightened her lanky figure, her single, thick chestnut-coloured braid falling down the length of her back. Little curls had escaped her braid and were now pointing out from each temple, her bangs (which she was so painstakingly trying to grow out) were stuck to her forehead before they went into an elegant, but unintentional wave framing her lovely, but bitter-looking face. She stood at the window, wondering with contempt how birds could even wake up, let alone sing voluntarily at such an ungodly hour.
Fifteen minutes later she was dressed and appropriately styled to meet the standards and expectations of the women’s club that is in charge of organizing all celebrations within the Windsor community, at least the most important and public ones. Anne had this notion of always having to act and dress appropriately, meeting standards that were never shared with her, but subconsciously presented. It made the frustration boil up inside her stomach as she closed and locked the door of her small, but very cozy room (with a remarkable view) in the boarding house she had been calling home for many months.
The truth is there were no extensive standards or expectations. Society had its rules and regulations for proper conduct, nothing beyond what one might find in any other part of the province. Neither was there such a division between her and any other unmarried young woman in the city. On the contrary, she was now far better off than newcomers to the city, who tried their luck in the domestic service sector. Miss Smith’s promotion had actually improved her living situation and she was now even able to save money on a monthly basis.
All that she did not see or realize. She was poor and unfortunate, doomed to live a life on scraps. Such were her thoughts as she once again descended the stairs into the kitchen on this beautiful late May morning.
“Porridge.”, came her hoarse voice, still dry from the night’s snoring.
“A good morning to ye, too, laddie.”, said Mrs. Brackenreid, who was neither plump nor pencil thin, her hair fire red as was her temper, her ivory complexion, like her arms and hands, were sprinkled with as many freckles as stars in the sky. Her thick Irish accent over toning the beating of the bread dough she was busying herself with.
“Reckon, still haven’t found the right side of the bed yet, have ye? Waiting for the day ye crack a smile on that wooden face of yers.”
“Well, miracles may still happen, so keep hoping. I sure need some encouragement.”
“What ye need is reality to smack ye in the face, that’s what ye need.”, Mrs. Brackenreid’s voice filled with the rise of her temper
Anne knew better than to answer, took her seat at the window and ate in silence.
At City Hall the women’s club was hustling and bustling, folding, gluing, stacking, organizing and re-organizing the various aspects of the upcoming celebrations. Cheeks were glowing, hands were busy and the chatter and giggling was plentiful. Anne sat in a corner, surrounded by delicate paper flowers and the stacks of the untouched material that was soon to turn into authentic looking flowers in their full bloom. A very loud, but equally friendly plump middle-aged woman made her way to Anne’s workstation, and ripped her out of her deepest thoughts with a genuine proclamation of delight and amazement by the quality of her work. The woman’s ooh’s and aah’s were followed by quick and multiplying footsteps of the other volunteers in the hall, the original admirer’s compliments being so loud nobody could have missed them.
“Mr. Walker would be so delighted by your diligence and talent, I will make sure to point you out to him at the ball tomorrow night.”
“Excuse me, what ball?” Anne’s eyes widened with shock, to the lookers-on it seemed like pure excitement glimmering within a sea of deep green.
“Well, you surely have heard of the Victoria Day celebrations ball which is to take place at our home. Tomorrow, reception begins at seven-thirty. My dear Mr. Walker and I would be delighted to receive your help at the punch table for a bit before you fill up your dance card. Poor Emeline has come down with a dreadful cold and has left us one girl short for the evening.”
Anne wasn’t quite sure how Ms. Smith had made it through the crowd of women, but there she stood at her side, gallantly accepting this peculiar invitation on Anne’s behalf.
The morning and early afternoon hours passed in a haze of folding, clipping etc and imagining the stifling hours she would have to spend not only cheering the parade in the morning, sharing her spot on the curb with little boys sporting sticky fingers, men and women alike elbowing one another to see some decorated horse, but now Anne would also have to face and endure the “pleasure” of giving out little bowls of punch as refreshments for sweaty men, who think themselves more attractive than they actually are, as though an overstocked brief pocket might add some attractiveness to their painfully polite manners. For the women, most of them would prance about the room, boasting about engagement rings, engagement parties, hair dos and the dresses they were wearing, most of which Anne had in some form or other aided in creating, mending or cleaning. Dear Lord, what would she wear? Who would even notice?
After having spent the afternoon doing some last-minute stitching on dresses absolutely required for the following day. Anne was sent home by Ms. Smith to wash and braid her hair and decide on a suitable dress to wear for herself during the day and night events.
May 24/1898
The night passed too quickly and the morning was too glorious for Anne to notice. It had rained and stormed heavily during the night time hours turning the muggy, stale, unmoving air into a most refreshing, but light breeze. Little drops of rain clinging to the leaves and flower petals reflected the early morning sun, affording the landscape an appearance of diamond sprinkled magic. Inside the cozy little bedroom Anne was at her wit’s end, attempting to undo the multiple braids that had formed a great knot during the night. Cheeks burning bright, armpits soaked in sweat (even though the window was wide open) and her temper flaring at its upper most limit she cursed louder than intended and concluded by sending this wretched day and all involved into the pit of eternal flames. Finally dressed and styled to perfection, she waited for an overly excited Mrs. Brackenreid to join her for the walk down to Sandwich Street for the ten o’clock Victoria Day parade. Mr. Brackenreid had long been gone to the docks, squeezing in a shift of border patrol before the holiday officially started. The increase in travel across the river in both directions has resulted in higher demands for border patrol officers. This was a welcomed promotion from the bone crunching chore of unloading freight ships at a lower wage. With a bit of luck the Brackenreids hoped to have paid off their mortgage in a few years, eliminating the need for boarders.
As the aforementioned Mrs. Brackenreid waved the Union Jack proudly (as a new Canadain she had her citizenship for less than a year) Anne was busy observing the cheering crowd, wondering how many of those excited faces actually knew or even cared about Queen Victoria, or even were aware of the fact that Windsor became a city a mere six years prior to this year. For most she assumed this was just cheap entertainment and an extra day off work.
Being an involuntary volunteer (Ms. Smith thought it a good idea to form connections) Anne was to help decorate the dancing room at the Walker residence. Spirits were high and laughter came easy, Anne noticed as she attached the last of her delicately folded paper flowers. A light, but nutritious lunch was provided, before the last-minute arrangements took place. An invitation for supper or at least a lift home by the Andersons was politely refused while Anne was looking through her purse for a left-over coin to take the Walkerville line street car home. The idea of having anybody realize Anne was living in a boarding house so close to downtown Windsor, and so far removed from the idyllic world in which the Walkers and Andersons lived was too much for her to bear. She knew she was not one of them, but the blunt realization on their faces once they found out was more than she was willing to bargain for. No, she was poor and lived a short walk away from public transportation, while they had their own driver. She had accepted her fate, but was not in the mood to defend or even explain her status in society.
Having missed the earlier street car, and since walking in one of the finest dresses she owned would cause it to be ruined, she had to settle for waiting under the shade of a big birch for the next one to arrive. The delay in her arrival home made her late for supper and consequently for the time allotted to change into her evening dress. Mrs. Brackenreid was so considerate as bring her a plate of meat, cheese and bread to her room; she did not want Anne to leave on an empty stomach
“I can’t believe ye going to a ball. Such excitement that must be. Ye sure have to tell me all about it in the morning. How I would love to join ye.”, Mrs. Brackenreid gave her a big smile before closing the door, leaving Anne to resume her beautification process.
“Nothing to get excited about, no one will even notice someone the likes of me is present.”, said she more to her reflection in the mirror than to the closed door.
The electric streetlamps were already switched on when Anne stepped out of the house in her rosé dress with the finest of ruffles on collar and short sleeves. Twilight surely must have been at least half an hour away, but the soft orange glow gave the street a festive atmosphere.
The dance room at the Walker estate was a great splendour when Anne took her place behind the refreshment table. She was asked to give out punch to the thirsty dancers for the first hour and a half, then she was free to mingle and dance. But dance she would absolutely not, she even buried her dance card as deep in her purse as possible, just in case a possible candidate might actually dare to ask her. This way it would look like she was on duty all night without any prospects of relief for even one dance. She may have successfully been able to avoid any dance invitations, but nothing and no one could save her from the occasional act of socializing she had to do during the course of the evening. Two of those dreadful occurrences were of particular significance. The first happened relatively early and involved a young lady with light brown hair pinned up into the typical style of a Gibson girl. Her cheeks were flushed to a lovely pink and the young man, who had been her dance partner since they arrived could not avert his eyes from her for more than a few seconds. Anne was observing them intently, not realizing the obvious nature of her staring when they almost reached her table. Convinced that the young lady just needed a reason to boast about dress or hair do, that being the perceived intent of her accepting a little glass of punch, Anne already pursed her lips in disapproval. The lady took her refreshment, smiled and thanked her before proceeding with:
“You are Ms Smith’s assistant, aren’t you?”
Anne nodded in agreement, wondering what this might have to do with her planned boasting. The lady continued: “I must tell you, when I found out it was you who took care of the alterations to my dress and that you were right here tonight, I just had to come over.”, she took a pause and sipped her punch, “I have already received so many compliments for my dress, although the ball has just started, I am quite overwhelmed. It takes a true master to have accomplished the work on this dress and you have exceeded this with your talent and creativity. Thank you so much, I will continue to mention your name and the extent of your craftsmanship to anyone in need of a seamstress.”, and with one final smile the lady turned and vanished into the dancing crowd.
Anne could have accepted this compliment were it not for the ruthless label of “seamstress”. Yes, this might be her occupation, but she certainly was not one by choice.
The second incident happened about an hour after the first and was grander in the consequences it carried with it. After the lady’s failed compliment Anne resorted to watching the dancing crowd in general, but refrained from making any specific observations in case she was noticed. Also, she made certain not to make eye contact with those who picked up their glass of punch and if such contact was unavoidable it was broken on Anne’s accord within a few seconds. All of this could not save her from what was about to happen next: the same plump, middle-aged woman, who had so loudly admired Anne’s work the day before came now to talk to Anne with an equally plump, but good-natured looking middle-aged man at her side.
“Now Mr. Walker, this is the young woman whom I have to thank for half of the splendid decorations which even you noticed earlier this evening. May I introduce Anne, Ms. Smith’s assistant.”
“Ah, very well, pleasure, my dear. You mastered some extraordinary work on the lace trimmed table cloths we ordered for Christmas and I can see you have not abandoned your talent of lace work since then, according to the detailed work of your lovely dress.” This was quite the introduction from the man who has been the supporting element of the flourishing community of Walkerville. Anne was quite surprised by his knowledge of her previous work on his orders, but regardless of what she meant to say or even do at this point, she was cut off by an excited voice chiming in from right behind her:
“Oh, and I’m delighted to inform you, sir, that this is not the only talent our Anne has.” Ms. Smith found immense pleasure in showing off her protégé and had an equal affinity to the word “delighted” and all its variations. Anne had heard her all evening scrambling for other means to express her enjoyment, but always resorted back to her evening favourite and she was not stopping now.
“It came to my attention a while ago, must have been mere weeks after you started at my shop, Anne, remember? Anyway, I was looking through my paper in the back room and accidentally knocked over a stack of them revealing some writing not by my hand. Curious as I was I started to read through them and soon realized that they were the most delightful children’s short stories I have ever read.”, Ms. Smith’s little narration had exactly the affect on her listeners she was hoping for, since both of the Walkers opened their mouths to form the sound “oh” and their faces showed equal amounts of a sort of relieved amazement and pleasure. Anne was also on the verge of exclaiming the same sound; however, more so out of embarrassment. The things she called Ms. Smith in those narrations, nothing short of old hag and shrew. That’s what she gets for leaving her personal and private writings lying around. Before Anne could even start to recover herself, Mr. Walker spoke again most earnestly:
“It has quite slipped my attention that we had such a multi-talented young lady in our community. Having now been made aware of such a blessing I must ask you to delight us with your gifts.”; now he had caught the “delight” fever as well, Anne thought. He continued:
“Every second Saturday we hold an afternoon of fun and joy for the underprivileged children in our community. We organize it at McKenzie Hall, starting as 3:30pm with arts and crafts, followed by cookies and milk and we were looking for someone to read them stories afterwards. This would be even more beneficial, because all the writing would be original. What do you say?”
Silence. Anne was not aware that she was supposed to answer, most likely because she hadn’t even understood the question. The Walkers looked at Anne with hopeful eyes, expecting a positive response. Ms. Smith, Anne could feel, was holding her breath in unbearable excitement until she blurted out:
“Of course! It’ll be an honour!”
With an inaudible sigh of relief Mr. Walker concluded their conversation:
“Very well, that’s settled then. Anne, next Saturday, 3:30pm, McKenzie Hall. Bring a few of your stories, maybe to fill an hour of reading, the children will appreciate it tremendously. Now off you go, dance the night away, I’m sure there must be plenty a suitable young man waiting to have the honour. Ms. Smith, enjoy the ball.”
The Walkers left, Ms. Smith waltzed over to a group of women belonging to the women’s club after having squeezed Anne’s arm in encouragement and Anne was left to digest it all in solitude.
“Children’s stories!?” she muttered to herself in disbelief as she tidied up the table.
An hour later she was on her way home. The street cars had stopped running long ago and she did not feel like staying any later to “dance the night away” as Mr. Walker had put it. She was also absolutely not in the mood to have to decline multiple lifts home at the end of the ball; no thank you, she could manage very well on her own. As she closed her bedroom door behind her and dropped her purse on the floor, she once more had to reflect on Mr. Walker’s invitation. She exclaimed:
“Children’s stories? Who would have thought!”
