due South story: "Open the World"
Oct. 5th, 2010 11:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luzulaOh YEAH. This is proof that even the most stubborn of WIP:s can be finished.
Title: Open the World
Relationships and characters: Martha Fraser gen, with Martha/George and female friendship.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 10,500 words
Summary: In 1921, Martha ran away from home to study at a teacher's college.
Notes: It takes a village, apparently. I first started this story two and a half years ago, and finished the first draft of the story during![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wrisomifu 2008, where I got a lot of encouragement. I want to thank akamine_chan for doing a thorough beta on the first draft. I rewrote and expanded the story during my first round of ficfinishing, where waltzforanight and innocentsmith were my first readers and cheerleaders. andeincascade beta-read the final draft and was generally her supportive and awesome self. Finally, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
suzumenoko and her colleague gave me valuable advice on Chinese culture.
I could not have written this story without the book Toronto's "Girl Problem": the Perils and Pleasures of the City 1880-1930 by Carolyn Strange. I found it while randomly browsing the women's studies section of the university library, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. It was also quite interesting in its own right—it's about the lives of single women and the entry of women into the workforce. Obviously, any historical (or other) errors are my own.
There was a letter addressed to Martha on the bottom step of the stairs, and she picked it up eagerly. The narrow stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed up to her attic room. They were steep and she held one hand on the stair in front of her, stepping carefully.
The room was dim, and the only light was from the remains of the sunset seeping in through the small window. Lighting a candle, she sat down on her cot and kicked her shoes off. She quickly pulled her feet up from the cold floor and tucked them under her, curling up along the warm chimney.
She looked at the letter. It seemed like months had passed since she had come here, though it had only been a few days, and she felt unexpectedly close to tears holding the envelope. The address was written in Miss Edward's flowing handwriting, so familiar from their time together in the classroom. Martha could almost see her tidy bun of hair and her straight back as she wrote on the blackboard.
No. She couldn't afford to be homesick. Martha decisively opened the envelope and unfolded the thin paper, tilting it toward the light.
August 18, 1921
Dear Martha,
I hope you are well, and that you are settling down in the city. How did your interview at the school go? I sent them a letter of recommendation, as I promised, but that is of course no guarantee that you will be admitted.
I'm afraid Billy Martin's parents still are not speaking to yours, even though the failure of his suit was not their doing. Billy himself seems to have recovered with amazing resilience.
Martha smothered a grin. She always knew Billy wasn't really sweet on her. His parents just wanted him to marry and get out of trouble. His face when she'd turned him down flat, though, that had been a sight. The thought that there was any girl who didn't want him was apparently one that had never struck him.
Martha sobered as she read the following lines.
Your father, I'm sorry to say, is not likely to forgive you. I'm told he renounced you as his daughter, so if you change your mind and want to come home, you will not find a warm welcome. But I dare say it's no more than you expected—you knew the stakes before you decided to leave.
Yes, Martha had known she wouldn't be able to go back. Her father had made himself quite clear, as if she hadn't known his opinion before. Wasting your time with that nonsense, when there's chores to be done, Martha remembered him saying when he caught her at her books. You'll never get yourself a husband that way. Martha set her jaw in a way that her father would have immediately recognized as her stubborn look. She'd burned her bridges, and she wasn't sorry for it, either.
But still, she couldn't help wondering what the rest of her family was doing now. Her mother was most likely tidying in the kitchen, or perhaps letting out the hems in her little brother's trousers—he did seem to be growing every day. Martha blinked her eyes. She couldn't afford to be sorry.
Martha read the letter twice, then tucked it into the drawer where she kept her diary, the necklace her grandmother gave her when she died, and what little money she had. She shivered a little and pulled a blanket around her shoulders against the drafty air in the attic. Leaning over to put her elbows on the windowsill, she looked out of the tiny window. The night was clear and cold, and the house was on a rise, so that she could look out over the rooftops marching off into the distance. Smoke rose from the chimneys up into the sky, dimming the stars. It was unbelievable how many people lived here; how behind every window were people eating, talking, or preparing for sleep.
Martha yawned, her tiredness for the moment overcoming the excitement of being in the city.
The blankets were warm enough, but she wasn't used to sleeping alone. At home, she had had her baby sister in the bed beside her, with her thumb in her mouth and making little sucking noises as she slept. Here, she only had her own cold toes and the little creaking sounds of the house sighing in its sleep.
But Martha was dead tired, and she fell asleep before she could worry over her interview the next day.
***
She was used to rising early, and she woke with her heart pounding, thinking she'd be late for milking the cows. Then she remembered where she was, but it didn't calm her down. Martha lay still in her bed. It felt like her whole future would be decided today.
Well, the work don't go away just because your eyes are closed, as her mother said. Or used to say, at least. Martha got up and dressed quickly, shivering in the chill. The quicker she could get the fire going again, the better.
Carefully, she made her way down the staircase, wincing as it creaked. Mrs. Williams wouldn't want to be woken this early, she thought. In the kitchen, she rekindled the fire and tidied away the dishes from last night, then began to prepare breakfast. She still felt a little uncertain at living in someone else's home, doing their chores and cooking their food, but she'd been lucky to find this place, she knew. And it wasn't as if she was unused to doing chores.
Martha made some sandwiches for lunch, then went upstairs again. Last night, she'd ironed her neatest clothes, the ones she used to wear to church: a dark woolen skirt and a blouse. She'd had them for a few years, but they still fit her well enough—apparently she wasn't going to fill out any more than she already had, which wasn't very much. Martha put the clothes on, then gave her straight dark hair a few awkward brushes and tied it up at the back of her neck. She wasn't used to doing it herself; at home, her mother used to brush it for her. When she was younger, Martha sat impatiently on her chair while the snarls were worked out, waiting for her mother to be done. Now she found that she missed it.
The school was a half hour's walk, and even worrying about what was waiting at the end of it, Martha couldn't help but be amazed by the bustle and life of the city. She pushed her way between working girls on their way to the factory and jumped away from bicycles that rang their bells in warning. Martha wondered if they were hard to ride. There were a few cars, too, and she looked in curiosity at the passengers, who looked very fine and elegant. On the larger streets, there were streetcars crammed with people.
There was a large, open lawn in front of the imposing brick building of the Toronto Normal School. Martha took a deep breath and went up the stairs to the main entrance. She had never been in such a place—it was far bigger than the church at home.
"Pardon me?" she asked a woman walking by in the main hall. "Can you tell me where the principal's office is?"
The woman smiled kindly at her, and Martha wondered if she was a teacher at the school. "Yes, it's straight through and to the right. You'll see it."
Martha did, indeed. The door looked heavy and dark and was inscribed with the words Head Office. Before she could hesitate, she lifted the brass knocker and knocked three times.
"Yes?" said a man's deep voice.
Martha opened the door and saw a large desk covered in piles of paper, with a man sitting behind it. He had spectacles and a moustache, curled up at the ends.
She swallowed, then said: "I'm Martha Davis, and I'm here for an interview today."
"Ah, yes. I'm Dr. Radcliffe, the principal of the school. If you could just knock on the door at the other end of the corridor and tell Miss Andersen that you're here, we can move right along."
Miss Andersen turned out to be the very woman Martha had met in the main hall. She introduced herself as one of the teachers at the school and sat down on a chair beside the desk. Martha stood before it, trying not to fidget.
Dr. Radcliffe took out a pile of papers from a drawer, and cleared his throat. "So, Miss Davis, you're a bit of a special case. I gather you that want to enroll as a student?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
He pursed his lips. "I see here that you didn't complete school. Is there a reason for that?"
Martha's stomach roiled nervously. She'd been expecting the question, but that didn't make it any easier. "I was needed at home. For work, that is."
"What kind of work?" Miss Anderson asked.
"My mother needed help taking care of the younger children." Her mother had taken badly ill when the influenza came, and been poorly for a time after it.
"I see," said Dr. Radcliffe. "Well, you did well on the entrance exam. And we have a rather glowing letter of recommendation for you from Anne Edwards, who is a graduate of this school. She says it's a pity you weren't able to finish, and that she gave you private lessons after you had to quit."
"Yes, sir, that's true."
"So, Miss Davis, what is your financial situation? Do you have money to pay for tuition?" Two pairs of eyes bored into her, and under their scrutiny, the little spark of hope that Martha had nourished fluttered and almost went out. Perhaps she'd been a fool to think she could study here; it was only for rich women, and she was a country girl. Still, there were such things as scholarships, Miss Edwards had told her so, and she wouldn't give up yet.
"No, sir, I'm afraid I don't." She kept her gaze firmly fixed on them.
"Very well. If you could wait outside for a while, we'll discuss the matter. If there's nothing else you wish to say?" He clearly expected her to leave.
Martha took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was her one chance, and she wasn't going to let it slip away without a fight.
"Yes, sir, there is." She paused, searching for words. "I always loved to study. It made me...part of something larger, and I could hardly stand it when I had to give up going to school. I studied as hard as I could whenever I didn't have to work. I know I would do well here; you would never regret taking me on." Martha looked at them intently, willing them to understand how important this was to her. Suddenly, she didn't feel nervous any more—she had done what she could.
"Very well, we'll take that under consideration," said Dr. Radcliffe.
Martha knew she was dismissed, and slipped out the door. It was thick, and she couldn't hear any voices from the other side. Martha waited impatiently for the verdict, chewing on her nails (she knew that was a bad habit, but couldn't seem to stop doing it).
After what seemed like an hour, the door opened and Miss Andersen beckoned her to come in.
"So, Miss Davis," Dr. Radcliffe said, looking at her over his spectacles. "We've decided to let you enroll. There was the issue of tuition, but we have a few scholarships for those who are less well off."
Martha almost couldn't believe it. She looked to Miss Andersen for confirmation, and she smiled and nodded encouragingly.
"Thank you so much, sir, ma'am. I don't know how I can thank you."
"Do well in your studies, and behave as befits a student of the school, and we'll consider ourselves repaid. If you'll go with Miss Andersen, she will handle the practical details."
In the corridor outside, Miss Andersen said, with a small smile, "Anne Edwards was a classmate of mine, actually. I remember her well."
"Really?" Martha said, trying to imagine Miss Edwards as a schoolgirl herself and failing.
"Yes. Now, let's see what your situation is. The semester begins the day after tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay in the city?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm living with a widow who needs someone to help her part of the time. I'm not getting full pay, but I can get by."
"Good. I'm glad you're not living in one of those cheap rooming houses, they're not for respectable girls," she said with a faint air of distaste.
Martha was immediately curious as to why rooming houses weren't respectable, but didn't say so. They went to an office and Miss Andersen took down Martha's name and address. "Well, we shall see you on Wednesday, then. Good luck, and if you have questions, please come to me with them."
Martha walked down the broad stone steps of the school and over the lawn. It suddenly struck her that she was a student there now, and the knowledge made her feel lit up from the inside with joy. The busy noise of the city didn't feel strange to her anymore: its life was her life, the streets and stores and parks all hers to live in now. She practically ran along the street until a bicycle bumped into her. The rider shouted at her, and she slowed down, panting. Martha smiled, feeling as if the whole world was open to her.
***
Mrs. Williams, when Martha told her, nodded approvingly. "Teaching is a fine occupation for a young woman. Well, at least until she can find a husband."
"Yes, ma'am." Martha didn't mention that she'd come here to escape a would-be husband. If she ever married, it certainly wouldn't be like that, traded off by her father like some sort of livestock.
With the help of her cane, Mrs. Williams heaved herself up from the armchair and went toward her closet. "Would you take my blue dress to the laundry? I use the one down on Grange Avenue. It's run by the Chinese, but it's cheap, and they do know how to handle silks."
Martha had to ask directions once on her way to the laundry, but eventually found it. This part of town had plenty of Chinese people, and Martha sneaked sideways looks at them. She'd read about China in geography books, but it had seemed far away, and as abstract as trigonometry.
At the laundry, a Chinese girl her own age took the dress and gave her a slip of paper in return. The girl turned to say something to a man in the back, and Martha listened in fascination. She'd never heard a language she couldn't understand before. The girl was short and slim, with dark eyes and a long black braid down her back.
"When can I come back for the dress?" Martha asked, unsure whether the girl could speak English.
"Tomorrow, after three." She could, apparently, but she had an odd sort of accent Martha had never heard before.
"All right. And thank you." Martha paid with the money Miss Williams had given her and left.
That evening after cooking dinner, Martha sat down at her small desk in the attic and took out paper and pen. Using her very best cursive hand, she wrote:
22nd of August 1921
Dear Miss Edwards,
Forgive me for not writing to you as soon as I arrived in the city, but I simply couldn't think of anything but my interview. It is over now, and I can hardly believe that they accepted me as a student. I believe your letter of recommendation made all the difference, and I can't thank you enough for all that you've done for me.
As always, writing set Martha's mind at ease, and she poured her hopes and worries into the letter. She had no one to talk to here, no one who would care what she felt. Martha wrote until there was almost no space left, then at the very bottom:
If you see my mother, please tell her that I am doing well.
and then she signed her name neatly.
***
Martha spent most of the following day thoroughly cleaning Mrs. Williams' house, so that she would have less housework to do once school began. The first day would be tomorrow, and she wondered what it would be like.
In the afternoon, she shook out the dust from her apron and went out to pick up Mrs. Williams' dress at the laundry. Martha took a few deep breaths of the cold air. It had rained during the day, and the air felt fresh and newly cleaned, like the house. At the laundry, she handed her slip of paper to the same girl who had stood behind the counter last time. She looked at the paper and came back with a carefully wrapped package.
"Thank you," Martha said, and turned to leave, only to stop short at the sudden and fierce drumming of rain on the roof. She made a face as she looked out the door. Why hadn't she brought the umbrella that Mrs. Williams kept by the door?
"You can stay a while and see if it passes, if you like," said the girl.
"Thank you kindly," said Martha. She stood there awkwardly looking around the room, wondering what to do. There were pictures on the walls, fanciful drawings of dragons and trees and women with parasols. A back door stood ajar, and Martha could hear voices speaking in Chinese.
"Why do you live in Canada?" she asked. "I mean, instead of in China?"
The girl flinched and turned away. Martha bit her lip and realized that probably she had said something very tactless. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you."
The girl looked at her guardedly. "So you don't mean that we ought to go back?"
"No! That wasn't what I meant. I was only curious."
"All right." She relaxed a little, fiddling with her long black braid. "My father worked on the railroad out west, and when there was no more work there, he brought my mother over from China. I was born here. I mean, I've never been to China."
"What's your name?" Martha asked.
"Yinmui. What's yours?"
"Martha." She tried saying the girl's name. "Yinmui? Is that right?"
Yinmui slowly repeated her name, sounding different in some way Martha couldn't place.
"I moved to the city this week," Martha said, to try to fill the silence and to share her story in turn.
"Where are you working?" asked Yinmui.
"I'm a maid, but only part-time." Martha gestured toward the package she had come to pick up. "I'll be going to school, as well. I'm going to be a teacher." She felt almost afraid of saying it aloud, as if it could be taken away from her at any moment.
Yinmui's eyes widened. "Oh. I've always wanted to know how to read."
"You can't read?" Martha said, and felt tactless again for being surprised.
"No. Well, I can write my name in Chinese. But I don't know English writing at all." She looked a little defensive.
"What does Chinese writing look like? Can you show me?" They were interrupted by a man who stuck his head out the back door and said something to Yinmui. It was clearly a reproach, and she looked guilty.
"I'm sorry, I have to work," she said to Martha.
The rain had almost passed, and Martha took her package and went home through the drizzle.
***
School was both familiar and strange. The smell of chalk from the blackboard; sitting behind a desk, head bent over her notes—all this was familiar and reassuring to Martha. But the surroundings, and her classmates, were different, and not like the small one-room country school she had gone to before. The high windows and broad staircases of the school made her feel small, but the other students walked as if they belonged there. Some of them were boys, but most were girls. Many of them had short hair, and Martha felt old-fashioned with the knot at the back of her neck.
They all of them wore the same clothes, a school uniform with a pleated skirt and a long-sleeved sweater, so at least Martha had no worries about what she should wear.
It wasn't that they were unpleasant to her, or that they ignored her, exactly. The girl with the desk next to hers had been nice enough when Martha got up her courage enough to talk with her. But she still had a feeling that she didn't quite fit in.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Andersen taught English class. Martha felt her heart lift a little when she saw her, and she thought Mrs. Andersen had an extra smile for her. Martha was determined to do well, and she was confident that she could. This was school, even if it was a fancy school in the city, and she had always done well in her studies.
***
"Martha!"
At Mrs. Williams' voice, Martha halted on her way up the stairs. It was Saturday, and she had been hoping to do some studying now that her chores were done. "Ma'am?"
"You know I am having my cousin and his wife over tomorrow, and I don't believe we have any tea left. And I need to get one of my dresses cleaned."
"Yes, ma'am," Martha said with resignation, as she couldn't very well refuse. At least she had learned her way through the nearby streets now, and knew where to shop. She hurried through her errands, impatient to return to her studies.
There was a queue at the laundry, and when it was her turn Martha looked up to see Yinmui giving her a quick smile. Martha smiled back, forgetting her irritation.
"Wait," Yinmui said and rummaged under the counter. She handed Martha a folded piece of paper along with the one for the dress. Martha would have liked to stay and talk with her, but the woman behind her had already put her things forward. Martha left with an apologetic glance back.
In the street, she unfolded the paper. On it were two signs made out of many lines crossing each other in a careful pattern; Chinese writing, she supposed, and remembered that she had asked Yinmui about that the last time. She turned the paper up, then sideways, wondering how they were to be read and what they said.
The next day when she went to pick up the dress, she was the only customer there. Martha took the paper up, and asked, "What does it say?"
"It's my name: this sign is 'yin', and this is 'mui'." Yinmui traced each of them in turn.
"Oh. So it's only two signs for your whole name? In English you would need more letters than that."
"I can't really write, and my parents can't, either. My sister's husband just showed me how to draw my name. But 'mui' means 'plum', and 'yin' is 'swallow', the bird, you see."
"Plum swallow? What does that mean?" Martha frowned, curious.
Yinmui shrugged. "It's just a name, I suppose. What does your name mean?"
"Well, it's from the Bible," Martha said, but then trailed off. She had no idea what her name meant. "All right, I see what you mean," Martha said, amused at having the question turned around on her.
"How do you write my name in your letters?"
"I don't know the spelling, but something like this, perhaps?" Martha put down "Yinnmuy" on the paper next to the signs.
A customer came in to fetch her clothes, and Martha stepped to the side and waited until she had gone. "Do you work all the time?"
Yinmui glanced at the back, then sighed. "Most of the time. But we close early on Sundays."
"Would you like to...I don't know, visit with me? Or something?" Martha said, all in a rush, before she could think better of it. She held her breath.
Yinmui looked up, startled. "Well..." she said, hesitating. But then she nodded. "Yes, I'd like that. If you wait a little, I could come with you directly. It isn't late, so I might not get into trouble if I'm gone for a bit."
In a little while Martha was curled up on her bed in the attic, talking with Yinmui who sat on the other end of the bed. Yinmui had been a little stiff at first, but was leaning back against the wall next to the warm chimney now, talking more easily. It wasn't difficult to talk with her, no matter that she was Chinese. Perhaps it was simply that Martha felt she was a stranger in the city, and Yinmui, for all she was a city girl and had lived there all her life, did not quite belong either.
Yinmui was the youngest daughter in her family. "My parents wanted a son, of course," Yinmui said, "but they had three girls instead."
"I'm the eldest in my family. And I think my father wished I was a son, too," Martha said.
"So, your parents let you go off to the city to study?" Yinmui asked.
"No, they wanted me to marry, but I didn't want to. He wasn't a bad man, really, but I didn't want to get married. I wanted to study. So I ran away," Martha said, putting it plainly.
Yinmui looked astounded. "And did you know anyone in the city? How did you know where to go?"
"No, I didn't know anyone. My schoolteacher at home, Mrs. Edwards, helped me. She wrote me a letter of recommendation for the school, and helped me find a place with Mrs. Williams."
"Was it worth it, then? Running away?"
"Yes," Martha said, not letting herself hesitate even a little. "The school is everything I wanted; I love it." Honesty made her add, in a lower voice, "But I suppose I'm a little lonely sometimes. It's so different in the city."
"Will you be married, do you think?" Martha asked, to turn the conversation away from herself for a while.
"I don't know? Maybe I will." Yinmui looked thoughtful. "My mother says she wishes I'd stay at home. If my sisters and I all get married into other families, there will be no one to take care of her and my father when they grow old."
"But what do you want to do?"
"I don't know yet."
Martha nodded. Yinmui craned her head to look out the window, where the sun was beginning to set already. "I must be going, or my parents will be angry. They don't like me to mix with strangers."
They went down the stairs and Martha waved Yinmui off, her long black braid swinging at her back as she walked away. She turned around to go back up again, but found her way blocked by Mrs. Williams.
"Who was that, Martha?" she said, with an air of disgust, as if Yinmui were something the cat had dragged in.
"Her name is Yinmui. She works at the laundry," Martha said, surprised. She hadn't thought anything of bringing home friends, if only they were quiet and didn't disturb Mrs. Williams.
"I won't have any of those Chinese in my house. I don't know why they didn't stay in their own country, anyway. Thieving wretches."
Martha stared, then said reasonably, "Well, you trust them with your laundry."
"Don't be pert with me! You must have nice girls in your class, and why you prefer a Chinese girl over them, I'm sure I don't understand. I don't want to see her here again." With a final glare, she swept off.
Martha went up to her room and wrote a diary entry that would surely have meant the end of her employment should Mrs. Williams ever have read it.
***
It wasn't until Martha had been in the city several weeks that she discovered the library.
She'd been working hard at her studies, and one afternoon after school had ended for the day, she felt reluctant to go straight back to her stuffy attic. On a whim, she took a left turn instead of a right on her way home, and walked slower, looking at the city around her.
This was a quiet part of town, with none of the rush and rowdiness of the downtown streets. Well-dressed men and women went by in a businesslike way, and Martha felt a little out of place. But then she saw the sign on the large building she had almost passed by, and promptly forgot everything else.
'Toronto Reference Library' read the sign above the double doors, and Martha went up the steps. Could she go inside? Was this meant for ordinary people, or only for...she didn't know. Professors?
A woman opened the door and held it for Martha before hurrying down the steps, shoes clacking on the stone. Martha caught the door without thinking, and then, of course, she had to steal inside.
The space inside was large, but quiet. There was a desk close to the entrance, and the woman who sat behind it looked up at Martha's entrance.
"Can I...that is, is this library for everyone?" Martha asked.
"Of course. This is a public library, and loans are free. Would you like a card, so you can borrow books?"
"Yes! I mean, I would like that." The woman filled in Martha's name and address in a register and gave her a card and a leaflet with the loan rules. "Just go in and get what you like."
Martha took the card and thanked her, then went further into the building and let herself be lost among the bookshelves. They were tall, going up several shelves above her head, but not reaching the high ceiling. She ran her fingers reverently along leather spines with gilt letters, and ones bound in cloth, and newer, more cheap-looking books, with no hard covers. She passed through a section with books on astronomy, and opened books with maps of the sky, the constellations and stars marked with strange names. Next was a section on biology, with books that seemed to tally all the plants and animals of the world. She came to a section with books in foreign languages, turned her head sideways and shaped with her lips words that she didn't understand.
Martha had only just wandered through to the fiction shelves when someone tapped on her shoulder. She spun around in surprise.
"Do you want to borrow anything? We're closing now," the librarian said.
"Oh," said Martha. She had been too caught up in looking to decide on something to borrow. "No, I'll come back."
That night, Martha dreamed of endless shelves of books stretching out into the distance.
***
The weather grew colder as fall turned into winter, and snow covered the city. Martha looked out the window of the classroom and shivered a little, thinking of the walk home. She needed a winter coat, but didn't know where she could find one cheaply. Her old one had been worn out and threadbare and too small besides, and she had left it behind. Well, perhaps she could ask Yinmui the next time they met.
Martha brought her attention back to class. Miss Andersen was still talking about verbs and nouns, predicates and subjects and objects, and Martha had written it all down out of habit. She smothered a yawn, hoping no one had noticed. It was not that she didn't find the class interesting, but she was tired, having studied late into the night before. It was hard to make time for her studies—Mrs. Williams seemed to think all Martha's time ought to be spent doing housework. And Martha herself had had the ideal of cleanliness sternly imprinted on her since she was a small child. If she had been set a task, she wanted to do it properly.
There was a nudge at her elbow, and Martha looked down to see a folded note. Clara, who had the desk next to hers, was already looking attentively at Miss Andersen again. Martha surreptitiously unfolded the note.
Martha: Do you want to want to come with us to the theater tomorrow night? Annie and I are going.
Martha thought about it, then decided they were probably going to an expensive theater. And besides, she didn't have the time. She wrote a note declining as politely as she could, and handed it back to Clara.
***
Martha took to telling Mrs. Williams that she was going to the library to study. This was in many instances true, but it was also a convenient excuse for seeing Yinmui, and Martha felt that what Mrs. Williams didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
In any case, the library was a much nicer place to study than the attic. It had better light, for one thing, and comfortable chairs. She usually curled up in an armchair by one of the windows, in the history section of the library. There were also a couple of tables, for when she needed more room to write.
But there was also a drawback—with so many other books available, it was hard to stick with the one she ought to be reading. At the moment, Martha was wrestling with mathematics, which wasn't her strongest suit. She pulled absently at a strand of her hair that had come loose.
On the other side of the closest book case, there was a sudden thump, as of something falling to the floor. Glad of a distraction, she jumped up from the armchair and went to investigate. On the other side, a young man her own age was down on the floor, picking up a pile of fallen books. Martha bent down to help.
"No, you don't have to do that! I mean, it's my fault," he said, red in the face.
"That's all right," Martha said. "I wanted to get away from my book, anyway."
"You did? Then why are you reading it?"
"I have a exam on Thursday, so I really have no choice." They had stacked the books up neatly now, and Martha took a closer look at him. He had glasses and dark brown hair which he had obviously tried in vain to smooth down.
"Do you...uh, I've seen you here before." He folded his lanky arms and turned red again. "I mean, where are you studying?"
"I'm at the Toronto Normal School. And you? Are you a student, too?"
"Yes, I'm taking history right now."
"Oh, so I guess you can't help me with my mathematics, then."
"No, I'm sorry. It's my worst subject." He looked crestfallen.
Martha caught sight of the clock on the wall, and it was later than she had realized. "Oh, I'm sorry. I really must be going home now. But it was nice to meet you."
"Oh. Well, I won't keep you, then." He looked disappointed as she gathered up her books.
"Wait," he said as she turned to leave. "What's your name?"
"Martha," she said. "Martha Davis."
"I'm George Fraser."
***
She wasn't really surprised when George turned up again the next time she was at the library. This time, she was doing grammar exercises.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he said, hovering beside the table as if he wasn't sure whether she would say yes.
"No, not at all." She made room on the table, and he put his stack of books down beside hers.
"How did your exam go?"
"Oh, I passed it. Not with much points to spare, but I passed."
"Congratulations." George settled down to study, and Martha went back to her exercises after sneaking a look at his books, which seemed to be about the Roman Empire.
They both studied in silence for a while. Then George smothered a laugh, and Martha looked up.
"Do you know why August and July both have 31 days?" he said.
"No. But I suppose it's a little strange—all the other ones switch between 30 and 31, don't they?"
"Well, it says here that July is named after Julius Caesar, and when the Emperor Augustus had a month named after him, he didn't want to have fewer days, so he changed it to have 31 days, too."
"Ha. I suppose he had delusions of grandeur."
"Yes, well. He was an emperor, after all."
Martha appreciated the company, even though she perhaps got a little less schoolwork done. George walked her home after the library closed. It was snowing, large flakes that drifted slowly down to stick to her clothes.
"Where are you from?" George asked.
"Oh, you won't know it. It's a small village out west, and my parents were farmers. I mean, they are farmers. But I don't think I will ever see them again."
"Why not?"
"Well, I...I ran away," Martha said, glancing up at George to see his reaction to this. He only nodded and waited steadily for her to say more. "They wanted me to marry the neighbor's boy. He wasn't a bad sort, I dare say, but I wanted more. I always loved to read and study—I didn't want to just be a farmwife. So I left."
George nodded thoughtfully. "I'm the only one in my family to study, too. Everyone else is in the military. My father and one of my brothers is with the RCMP, in Whitehorse, and both of my brothers fought in the war. I was too young."
"Oh. And did you want to?"
He looked half ashamed, half defiant. "Not really. I mean, I would have gone, if I'd been old enough. It would have been my duty. But I'd have made a poor soldier—I always wanted to be a scholar."
They had reached Mrs. Williams' house now, and George took his leave. When Martha went inside, brushing the snow from her coat, she heard Mrs. Williams' cutting voice.
"Martha! What do you think you are doing, to walk around with a strange man at this hour? Why, you're behaving like a hussy! I won't have it, not in my house." She banged her cane in the floor for emphasis.
Martha gaped. "But I..."
She realized that there was probably nothing she could say to convince Mrs. Williams otherwise. Fuming, she retreated into the kitchen, where she composed scathing and somewhat contradictory retorts in her head:
Contrary to what you believe, I was having a perfectly innocent conversation with a fellow human being. You're the one with the dirty mind.
I thought you wanted me to find a husband? How do you suppose I should do that if I never talk with a man?
She wished with all her heart that she could take a room in a boarding house instead. But she didn't have the money for it, there was simply no getting around that. It wasn't likely that she could find a part-time job that would allow her to go to school in the daytime, if she didn't want to work as a maid.
Martha struggled with her pride, then went to humbly ask Mrs. Williams' pardon and assure her it wouldn't happen again.
Not where you can see it, at least, she silently added in her head.
***
She couldn't meet with Yinmui very often, as they were both busy. But one afternoon, Mrs. Williams was away visiting, and Martha stopped by the laundry to tell Yinmui so, and invite her to come by if she could. Martha knew Yinmui's parents wouldn't approve of this, so she waited until she didn't see them before opening the door.
"Oh, I can stop by, then," Yinmui said when Martha asked her. "I have a few errands to run, and I'll come after."
It was late afternoon when Yinmui knocked on the back door, and Martha heard her as she stood in the kitchen washing dishes. She shook the water off her hands and went to open. Yinmui had her hands full of groceries, which she set down on the kitchen counter. Martha made them some tea, and they went up the stairs to Martha's little room.
"What is 'tea' in Chinese?" she asked, blowing on the cup to cool it down enough to drink.
"Cha," Yinmui said. "At least where I come from."
"Are there different kinds of Chinese?"
"Yes, people speak differently in different provinces, but we're all Chinese. My family comes from Canton."
"Oh. Will you tell me some more words?"
Yinmui taught her a few words and phrases, and Martha struggled with them, saying them again and again until Yinmui gave her approval. It wasn't so much the sounds as the melody of the speech that was difficult, but she kept at it stubbornly.
"Will you be in trouble for being gone?" Martha asked. She wouldn't want Yinmui to have trouble on her account.
"A little, perhaps." She smiled behind her hand, a gesture Martha had seen her make before, and which made her seem more shy than she truly was. "Besides, I want to do things for myself sometimes. It's worth a little trouble." Yinmui hesitated. "I was wondering..."
"About what?"
"Is it hard to learn to read?"
Martha frowned, trying to recall what it was like. "I was so young when I learned—I don't remember how hard it was. But I'll teach you, if you like."
"Oh, would you?" Yinmui smiled brilliantly.
"Of course I will." Reading had given Martha the world, and she couldn't imagine not wanting to share that.
She reached for a sheet of paper and a pencil and wrote down the capital letter A. "There's one letter for every sound. This one is A. It's the sound in the beginning of 'apple', and 'age', for example."
Yinmui repeated the words and frowned. "But those are different sounds."
"Oh, you're right. Well, 'A' can sound either way." It proved to be more difficult than Martha had thought to teach someone to read. But then, it was good practice for her, and Yinmui was a quick study.
***
Martha's meetings with George in the library became a regular thing, until the librarians knew them both by sight.
Perversely, it was Mrs. Williams' scolding that put the idea of George as a potential suitor into Martha's mind. She was sure she hadn't thought of George that way before, but now she kept noticing little things, such as how his hands looked when they curved around the pen, and how there were little blotches of ink on his fingers, from where he fiddled with the pen while he was thinking. She tried not to dwell on it, though—why ruin what looked to be a perfectly good friendship? Besides, it galled her to let Mrs. Williams be in the right.
It was only that she had never known any boys like him before. At the Normal School, the boys kept aloof and didn't mingle much with the girls, and the boys in her village had been coarse, and would rather pull the girls' hair than talk with them. But George—she could talk with him, and share things that she had read or thought of, and he would smile and listen to her.
***
"There's a Halloween party tonight at Sherbourne House, do you want to come?" Clara asked while packing up her books.
"But I have nothing to wear," Martha said, stalling a little.
"Oh, that doesn't matter. Some people will be in costume, but not everyone. You can come however you like. Come on, it will do you good—you're so serious all the time." Clara smiled encouragingly.
Am I really? Martha thought. "All right, I'll come."
"Splendid! We'll see you at seven, then."
Sherbourne House was decked out in lanterns, looking gay and festive. Martha had never been there before, though she had heard of it—it was the largest supervised boarding house for girls in the city. Clara met her at the door, talking animatedly.
"Martha, hello! There'll be dancing soon. No men allowed, more's the pity, but it's great fun anyway. Oh, Amanda, I didn't know you'd be here!" Clara turned in the crowd to greet another girl she seemed to know, and Martha took a look around.
They were in a large hall with groups of armchairs and low tables. It looked comfortably lived-in and was full of women, some her own age and some older. There was a swirl of movement, of talking, laughter, skirts sweeping past. Music came from somewhere in the house, and Clara took hold of her arm and led her further in. She saw another girl from her class, who smiled and waved at her.
Clara vanished onto the dance floor, and Martha backed up to a wall and just looked. She was just as happy not to be asked up, since she couldn't dance very well. Perhaps she ought to learn.
Martha blinked at the sight of one of the nearest couples. Hadn't Clara said no men were allowed here? He was short, and dressed in a black suit, with a moustache. But as the couple finished the dance with a flourish, Martha saw the unmistakably feminine curves of the chest. She stared, and almost didn't notice Clara tugging at her sleeve.
"Come on and dance!" She followed Martha's eyes. "Oh, that's Mamie. She won the prize for best costume last year, isn't she swell?"
Martha nodded wordlessly, busy with trying to figure out how to dance. Clara slid her arm around Martha's back, tugging her closer. "Don't worry, I'll do the leading. You just follow along."
It did seem to be easier when she didn't think, and then Martha was lost among the dancers, couples in queer costumes whirling by, some with skirts shorter than she had ever seen, some with feathers, or hats, and another woman dressed up like a man holding a partner close.
Martha left the party early, so as not to be out on the streets too late, but she wished she could have stayed. It was not as though she had talked to many people—in fact, she'd felt quite awkward—but Sherbourne House somehow had a warmth to it, as if the girls living in it had left imprints of their loves and hopes and secrets in the very walls of the house.
***
"Come on out." George turned around on the ice to face her and smiled, holding out his hands.
Martha held onto the wooden rink, not entirely trusting the two thin blades of metal on her rented skates. Around her, the skating rink was full of city people on holiday: couples who skated sedately hand in hand, groups of girls, little children who darted to and fro so quickly she could not understand why they didn't fall or crash together more often. That last decided her: if the children could do it, so could she.
She held out her arms for balance and pushed off. Unsteadily, she stood on her own, and then took a few tentative strokes. George held out his hand, but Martha skated past him. Well, this wasn't so difficult after all. She turned her head to tell George so, which of course was when she slipped and landed unceremoniously on her backside.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes. I was just going to tell you that it wasn't so hard," she said, getting up again and dusting off her coat.
"Pride goeth before a fall," he intoned in mock reproach, and she smiled.
Martha tried again, and got the hang of it quickly. As long as she didn't try anything fancy, she could skate along reasonably well. She didn't take George's arm, although she was sure he would have been glad to offer it. They were not a couple, after all.
"How did you learn to skate so well?" she asked him. He wasn't showing off, but she could see from the easy grace of his movements that this was certainly not the first time he went skating.
He ducked his head. "Well, my brothers and I used to go skating on the river together. They were much older and faster than me, and I had to work to keep up. It was good practice, I suppose."
Martha swerved to the side to avoid a careening little boy. She managed to avoid falling by waving her arms wildly in the air. When she looked up, George was grinning. It looked good on him.
Martha quashed her own answering smile. "I'm beginning to think that you only wanted to see me looking foolish."
"If I did, it would be only because you're so good at everything else."
Martha reddened. Compliments were not something she was used to, and she wasn't quite sure how to handle them. But he hadn't said it as if he were being gallant. That was why she liked him, she realized—because he treated her more like a friend than like a girl.
They finished one slow round of the rink and made another one, a little faster. After that, Martha's ankles ached with the unfamiliar exercise on the somewhat wobbly skates, and they sat down to take them off.
"I liked this," Martha said. "And it's not so expensive—I might try it again, if I have time."
"Tell me if you do, and I'll come with you. I miss skating."
They walked part of the way home together. When George turned aside to head for his rooming house, he said, "Well, I'll see you on Wednesday at the library?"
"Oh, yes. And I'll bring you back that book of yours—I keep forgetting."
"There's no hurry." And then he came closer, hesitating a moment. She could have turned her head aside if she had wanted to, but she didn't, and he kissed her, a quick soft press of his lips against hers. Then he drew back, blushing, and walked quickly away down the street.
Well, so much for not treating her as a girl. But she found she didn't mind, after all.
***
Clara came and coaxed Martha out of the house the next Saturday. She knocked on the back door, and Mrs. Williams, who had spotted her from her usual place in the armchair by the window, came around to see who it was. Clara seemed to pass inspection in her fancy coat, because Mrs. Williams nodded approvingly at them before they left.
Martha couldn't help but contrast this to the reception that Mrs. Williams had given Yinmui. She wondered what Yinmui was doing now. Working, no doubt; Saturday was a busy day at the laundry.
"You need to get out some," Clara told Martha. "Otherwise you'll go cross-eyed over all those books. I am sure you will do well on the test anyway; you always do."
"Well, it isn't only studying, I need to work as well," Martha said, feeling slightly resentful. Clara's family was fairly rich, and paid for her tuition and board.
"Oh, of course, I do see that. But still, you need to have some fun. Otherwise, what's the use of working so hard?" Clara said. "Now, let's go down to Yonge Street and do some Christmas shopping."
Yonge Street was lit up with Christmas decorations, extravagant lights and garlands in all the windows of the shops. There were colorful billboards advertising everything under the sun. And everywhere there were people, their cheeks rosy from the cold, going into shops and coming out with bags and packages in their hands. Martha looked at the fancy dresses in the shop windows and shook her head. Like as not, she'd just have felt out of place in finery like that. Besides, she couldn't have afforded it—she had bought a winter coat some time ago, and that had been expensive.
Clara made purchase after purchase, until she was laden with bags. "Don't you have anyone to buy Christmas presents for?" Clara asked, and Martha considered.
She did, she realized. She could buy a present for George, and one for Yinmui. Nothing expensive, of course, but still. She thought of her family briefly, but left the thought unfinished.
Finally, she selected a new pen for George and some chocolate for Yinmui, who had quite a sweet tooth. She frowned when she realized that Yinmui's family probably didn't celebrate Christmas, but thought that she wouldn't mind a present, anyway.
"So what would you like for Christmas, then?" Clara asked her.
"Me? I don't know." It hadn't crossed her mind to wish for anything for herself.
"Come on, there must be something. If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?"
Well, her shoes were wearing out, but she suspected that was not the kind of thing Clara was talking about. Martha bit her lip, thinking.
"A bicycle, perhaps," she finally said. She didn't mind walking to school, but it took time, and it was time that she could use for a better purpose. Besides, she had always wanted to try riding on one.
"Oh, you could have my old one if you wanted to," Clara said.
"No, I couldn't possibly take your bicycle," Martha protested. It was too much.
Clara waved her objections away. "I have another one now, and no one is using the old one, anyway. Of course you should have it! Although I shouldn't have said anything until Christmas. Well, too late for that now."
"Well, if you insist," Martha said. "Thank you so much, Clara."
"You're welcome. I'm glad it'll come to use. Now, let me treat you to tea?" Clara said, and swept Martha into a tea salon before she could protest.
"Thank you kindly," Martha said, still uncomfortable. She didn't want to rely on Clara's kindness for everything.
They had tea and cakes, and Clara told of her the latest gossip with great relish. "So did you hear about Mary and Tom? Laura saw them kissing behind the school. I wouldn't want to be them if the teachers find out."
"No, I hadn't heard," Martha said. Mary and Tom were both in their class, but Martha hadn't noticed that they were spending time together.
"Don't you have any sweetheart, Martha?" Clara asked.
"Ah," Martha said, trying to stall.
Clara pounced on this at once as evidence of secret romance. "Oh, you do! Tell me about it. Is it someone at school?"
"No. And anyway, there's nothing to tell," Martha protested.
"Oh, come now, I don't believe that." And Clara wheedled the story out of her: how she had met George at the library, and that they met for studying sometimes, and had gone skating together.
"That is so romantic!" Clara declared.
"Well, we mostly just study together."
"And is he handsome?"
"I suppose he is good-looking enough." George wasn't handsome in a classical way, but Martha did find him very charming, with his unruly hair and shy smile. She wasn't ready to say so to Clara, though.
When they had finished their tea, they strolled back along the street, their breath making clouds in the cold air. They passed by the window of a drugstore, and Clara pointed slyly at the advertisement in the window. Rubber goods of all kinds sold.
"Perhaps you ought to go in and get some?" She elbowed Martha meaningfully.
"Get what?" Martha frowned in confusion.
"So he won't, you know, get you in the family way," Clara said with a wink. "But I'm sure you're careful."
Martha looked down in the street, cheeks flaming hot, even though she didn't quite understand what rubber had to do with it. It was not as though she didn't know where children came from, but for Clara to talk about it like this! Perhaps city girls were more outspoken. And Clara did like to tease her.
Later, Martha thought it over and tucked the information about the drugstore away in her mind. Not that she and George...well, she hadn't planned anything of the sort, really, but it never hurt to be prepared. How would that rubber thing work, anyway? If she could get past her embarrassment, perhaps she could ask at the drugstore.
Any unmarried girl would worry about getting with child, but Martha thought defiantly that she might not want a baby even if she were married. She thought about her mother and how she was always tired, never doing anything but caring for all the children. That was why Martha had run away, after all—she didn't want to live like that.
***
Clara brought her old bicycle to school next week. "I'm afraid it's a bit rusty," she said. "It's been standing outdoors. And one of the tires is flat."
"Oh, thank you, Clara!" Martha said. "I'm sure it can be fixed."
Martha led the bicycle home after school, wondering how on Earth to ride on it. It seemed impossible that one wouldn't tip over to the side and fall. She stopped by Yinmui's family's laundry on her way home and peered in through the window. Yinmui saw her and came out.
"A bicycle? Is it yours?" Martha told her how she had got it, and Yinmui knelt down to look.
"The chain is very rusty," she said. "And the tire is flat. But it looks good otherwise."
"Do you know how to fix it?" Yinmui's family had a bicycle that was used to deliver clean laundry, and Yinmui used it sometimes when she had errands to run.
"Me? No. But my cousin has a repair-shop just down the street. If you go there and tell him I sent you, he'll give you a good price."
"Thank you, I will." Martha gestured toward the bicycle and asked, in Chinese, what it was called. This was a phrase she had much use for. Yinmui told her the word for "bicycle", and Martha repeated it. If asked, Martha would have found it hard to explain why she was learning Chinese. It was something she didn't know, and so she wanted to learn it.
She abandoned her limited Chinese and went back to English. "I can't imagine how people ride these things without falling over."
"It's not so hard. But the streets are all icy now. Are you sure you don't want to wait until spring?"
"But isn't it softer to land in the snow?"
Yinmui laughed. "Well, you will be the one with the bruises. You can come over tomorrow and I'll help you—it's easier if someone holds the bicycle in the beginning."
Martha did acquire quite a few bruises. After the fourth time she fell, she got up again and looked at Yinmui, who was out of breath after running down the street next to Martha on the bicycle. Her breath made white puffs in the cold air.
"Does it get easier?" Martha asked, rubbing her shin, which had banged against the frame again.
"Yes, it does. And it's easier to go fast than to go slow."
"Easier to break your neck, too," Martha muttered, but she got up to try again.
***
"Congratulations, Martha!" George hugged her quickly, then stood back and beamed at her.
"Thank you," Martha said happily. She and George had both done well in their last exams before Christmas, and they were sitting in George's small room in a cheap rooming house. This was perhaps not very proper, but Martha felt so happy at their shared success that she could not bring herself to care. Besides, as long as she could be home before her curfew, nobody would know. And she trusted George.
"The way you studied, of course you did well," George said.
That was true, she had studied each night until she was ready to fall asleep over her books, and one night had even done that, waking up a few hours later with creases on her face from the papers. But she had done well, as indeed she had expected she would. Martha wondered somewhat guiltily if pride like this might backfire in some way.
"As if you didn't stay up in the night, as well," Martha replied.
"Well, yes, but it was worth it," George said with a yawn. He took one of the sweets they had bought for celebrating. Martha reached for one, too, revealing the bruise on her arm.
"Did you hurt yourself?" George asked, frowning. He stroked her arm lightly with the back of his fingers. Martha shivered.
"One of the girls at school gave me her old bicycle. I'm trying to ride it."
"Is it hard?"
Martha shrugged. "I'll learn. Do you know how to ride?"
George shook his head. "We had more use for snowshoes in Whitehorse."
"It will be useful for getting to school with, when I can ride it." Martha took another sweet, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. She had never had such things when she lived at home, and it seemed almost sinfully sweet.
"Where do you want to go, when you're a teacher?" George asked. "Do you want to stay in the city, or go to a school out in the country?"
"Well..." Martha trailed off, suddenly struck by the thought that she had never really imagined herself in a classroom, teaching little children.
"A penny for your thoughts, Martha?" George said. "You look so serious."
Martha spoke slowly, figuring out what she wanted to say as she was saying it. "I think I only applied to be a teacher because that was the only way I knew of that I could study. I admired my schoolteacher so much. She was independent, and knew so much, and I wanted to be like her."
"So what do you really want?"
"I don't know. It's not that I would mind teaching children, exactly, but...I have to think about it. I just want to study more. And use it, somehow."
"Well, if you want to study more, perhaps you should just go and live in the library," George said with a smile.
"If only I could," Martha said wistfully, thinking of all those books. Then she saw what time it was, and jumped up from the bed. "Oh, I have to go home, or Mrs. Williams will scold me."
She was still thinking as she walked home. George had kissed her good-night before she left, and she had put her arms up around his neck and returned the kiss. He had offered to walk her home, but Martha had declined the offer. She wanted some time alone.
Her feet found their own way, familiar now with the streets of the city as they had not been half a year ago. When she went to bed that night in her attic, she pulled the blankets up to her chin and curled up on her side to keep the warmth in. She was tired and on the verge of sinking down into sleep.
I have time, she thought drowsily. I'll figure out what I want, and I'll do it, too.
Title: Open the World
Relationships and characters: Martha Fraser gen, with Martha/George and female friendship.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 10,500 words
Summary: In 1921, Martha ran away from home to study at a teacher's college.
Notes: It takes a village, apparently. I first started this story two and a half years ago, and finished the first draft of the story during
wrisomifu 2008, where I got a lot of encouragement. I want to thank akamine_chan for doing a thorough beta on the first draft. I rewrote and expanded the story during my first round of ficfinishing, where waltzforanight and innocentsmith were my first readers and cheerleaders. andeincascade beta-read the final draft and was generally her supportive and awesome self. Finally, suzumenoko and her colleague gave me valuable advice on Chinese culture. I could not have written this story without the book Toronto's "Girl Problem": the Perils and Pleasures of the City 1880-1930 by Carolyn Strange. I found it while randomly browsing the women's studies section of the university library, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. It was also quite interesting in its own right—it's about the lives of single women and the entry of women into the workforce. Obviously, any historical (or other) errors are my own.
There was a letter addressed to Martha on the bottom step of the stairs, and she picked it up eagerly. The narrow stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed up to her attic room. They were steep and she held one hand on the stair in front of her, stepping carefully.
The room was dim, and the only light was from the remains of the sunset seeping in through the small window. Lighting a candle, she sat down on her cot and kicked her shoes off. She quickly pulled her feet up from the cold floor and tucked them under her, curling up along the warm chimney.
She looked at the letter. It seemed like months had passed since she had come here, though it had only been a few days, and she felt unexpectedly close to tears holding the envelope. The address was written in Miss Edward's flowing handwriting, so familiar from their time together in the classroom. Martha could almost see her tidy bun of hair and her straight back as she wrote on the blackboard.
No. She couldn't afford to be homesick. Martha decisively opened the envelope and unfolded the thin paper, tilting it toward the light.
August 18, 1921
Dear Martha,
I hope you are well, and that you are settling down in the city. How did your interview at the school go? I sent them a letter of recommendation, as I promised, but that is of course no guarantee that you will be admitted.
I'm afraid Billy Martin's parents still are not speaking to yours, even though the failure of his suit was not their doing. Billy himself seems to have recovered with amazing resilience.
Martha smothered a grin. She always knew Billy wasn't really sweet on her. His parents just wanted him to marry and get out of trouble. His face when she'd turned him down flat, though, that had been a sight. The thought that there was any girl who didn't want him was apparently one that had never struck him.
Martha sobered as she read the following lines.
Your father, I'm sorry to say, is not likely to forgive you. I'm told he renounced you as his daughter, so if you change your mind and want to come home, you will not find a warm welcome. But I dare say it's no more than you expected—you knew the stakes before you decided to leave.
Yes, Martha had known she wouldn't be able to go back. Her father had made himself quite clear, as if she hadn't known his opinion before. Wasting your time with that nonsense, when there's chores to be done, Martha remembered him saying when he caught her at her books. You'll never get yourself a husband that way. Martha set her jaw in a way that her father would have immediately recognized as her stubborn look. She'd burned her bridges, and she wasn't sorry for it, either.
But still, she couldn't help wondering what the rest of her family was doing now. Her mother was most likely tidying in the kitchen, or perhaps letting out the hems in her little brother's trousers—he did seem to be growing every day. Martha blinked her eyes. She couldn't afford to be sorry.
Martha read the letter twice, then tucked it into the drawer where she kept her diary, the necklace her grandmother gave her when she died, and what little money she had. She shivered a little and pulled a blanket around her shoulders against the drafty air in the attic. Leaning over to put her elbows on the windowsill, she looked out of the tiny window. The night was clear and cold, and the house was on a rise, so that she could look out over the rooftops marching off into the distance. Smoke rose from the chimneys up into the sky, dimming the stars. It was unbelievable how many people lived here; how behind every window were people eating, talking, or preparing for sleep.
Martha yawned, her tiredness for the moment overcoming the excitement of being in the city.
The blankets were warm enough, but she wasn't used to sleeping alone. At home, she had had her baby sister in the bed beside her, with her thumb in her mouth and making little sucking noises as she slept. Here, she only had her own cold toes and the little creaking sounds of the house sighing in its sleep.
But Martha was dead tired, and she fell asleep before she could worry over her interview the next day.
***
She was used to rising early, and she woke with her heart pounding, thinking she'd be late for milking the cows. Then she remembered where she was, but it didn't calm her down. Martha lay still in her bed. It felt like her whole future would be decided today.
Well, the work don't go away just because your eyes are closed, as her mother said. Or used to say, at least. Martha got up and dressed quickly, shivering in the chill. The quicker she could get the fire going again, the better.
Carefully, she made her way down the staircase, wincing as it creaked. Mrs. Williams wouldn't want to be woken this early, she thought. In the kitchen, she rekindled the fire and tidied away the dishes from last night, then began to prepare breakfast. She still felt a little uncertain at living in someone else's home, doing their chores and cooking their food, but she'd been lucky to find this place, she knew. And it wasn't as if she was unused to doing chores.
Martha made some sandwiches for lunch, then went upstairs again. Last night, she'd ironed her neatest clothes, the ones she used to wear to church: a dark woolen skirt and a blouse. She'd had them for a few years, but they still fit her well enough—apparently she wasn't going to fill out any more than she already had, which wasn't very much. Martha put the clothes on, then gave her straight dark hair a few awkward brushes and tied it up at the back of her neck. She wasn't used to doing it herself; at home, her mother used to brush it for her. When she was younger, Martha sat impatiently on her chair while the snarls were worked out, waiting for her mother to be done. Now she found that she missed it.
The school was a half hour's walk, and even worrying about what was waiting at the end of it, Martha couldn't help but be amazed by the bustle and life of the city. She pushed her way between working girls on their way to the factory and jumped away from bicycles that rang their bells in warning. Martha wondered if they were hard to ride. There were a few cars, too, and she looked in curiosity at the passengers, who looked very fine and elegant. On the larger streets, there were streetcars crammed with people.
There was a large, open lawn in front of the imposing brick building of the Toronto Normal School. Martha took a deep breath and went up the stairs to the main entrance. She had never been in such a place—it was far bigger than the church at home.
"Pardon me?" she asked a woman walking by in the main hall. "Can you tell me where the principal's office is?"
The woman smiled kindly at her, and Martha wondered if she was a teacher at the school. "Yes, it's straight through and to the right. You'll see it."
Martha did, indeed. The door looked heavy and dark and was inscribed with the words Head Office. Before she could hesitate, she lifted the brass knocker and knocked three times.
"Yes?" said a man's deep voice.
Martha opened the door and saw a large desk covered in piles of paper, with a man sitting behind it. He had spectacles and a moustache, curled up at the ends.
She swallowed, then said: "I'm Martha Davis, and I'm here for an interview today."
"Ah, yes. I'm Dr. Radcliffe, the principal of the school. If you could just knock on the door at the other end of the corridor and tell Miss Andersen that you're here, we can move right along."
Miss Andersen turned out to be the very woman Martha had met in the main hall. She introduced herself as one of the teachers at the school and sat down on a chair beside the desk. Martha stood before it, trying not to fidget.
Dr. Radcliffe took out a pile of papers from a drawer, and cleared his throat. "So, Miss Davis, you're a bit of a special case. I gather you that want to enroll as a student?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
He pursed his lips. "I see here that you didn't complete school. Is there a reason for that?"
Martha's stomach roiled nervously. She'd been expecting the question, but that didn't make it any easier. "I was needed at home. For work, that is."
"What kind of work?" Miss Anderson asked.
"My mother needed help taking care of the younger children." Her mother had taken badly ill when the influenza came, and been poorly for a time after it.
"I see," said Dr. Radcliffe. "Well, you did well on the entrance exam. And we have a rather glowing letter of recommendation for you from Anne Edwards, who is a graduate of this school. She says it's a pity you weren't able to finish, and that she gave you private lessons after you had to quit."
"Yes, sir, that's true."
"So, Miss Davis, what is your financial situation? Do you have money to pay for tuition?" Two pairs of eyes bored into her, and under their scrutiny, the little spark of hope that Martha had nourished fluttered and almost went out. Perhaps she'd been a fool to think she could study here; it was only for rich women, and she was a country girl. Still, there were such things as scholarships, Miss Edwards had told her so, and she wouldn't give up yet.
"No, sir, I'm afraid I don't." She kept her gaze firmly fixed on them.
"Very well. If you could wait outside for a while, we'll discuss the matter. If there's nothing else you wish to say?" He clearly expected her to leave.
Martha took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was her one chance, and she wasn't going to let it slip away without a fight.
"Yes, sir, there is." She paused, searching for words. "I always loved to study. It made me...part of something larger, and I could hardly stand it when I had to give up going to school. I studied as hard as I could whenever I didn't have to work. I know I would do well here; you would never regret taking me on." Martha looked at them intently, willing them to understand how important this was to her. Suddenly, she didn't feel nervous any more—she had done what she could.
"Very well, we'll take that under consideration," said Dr. Radcliffe.
Martha knew she was dismissed, and slipped out the door. It was thick, and she couldn't hear any voices from the other side. Martha waited impatiently for the verdict, chewing on her nails (she knew that was a bad habit, but couldn't seem to stop doing it).
After what seemed like an hour, the door opened and Miss Andersen beckoned her to come in.
"So, Miss Davis," Dr. Radcliffe said, looking at her over his spectacles. "We've decided to let you enroll. There was the issue of tuition, but we have a few scholarships for those who are less well off."
Martha almost couldn't believe it. She looked to Miss Andersen for confirmation, and she smiled and nodded encouragingly.
"Thank you so much, sir, ma'am. I don't know how I can thank you."
"Do well in your studies, and behave as befits a student of the school, and we'll consider ourselves repaid. If you'll go with Miss Andersen, she will handle the practical details."
In the corridor outside, Miss Andersen said, with a small smile, "Anne Edwards was a classmate of mine, actually. I remember her well."
"Really?" Martha said, trying to imagine Miss Edwards as a schoolgirl herself and failing.
"Yes. Now, let's see what your situation is. The semester begins the day after tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay in the city?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm living with a widow who needs someone to help her part of the time. I'm not getting full pay, but I can get by."
"Good. I'm glad you're not living in one of those cheap rooming houses, they're not for respectable girls," she said with a faint air of distaste.
Martha was immediately curious as to why rooming houses weren't respectable, but didn't say so. They went to an office and Miss Andersen took down Martha's name and address. "Well, we shall see you on Wednesday, then. Good luck, and if you have questions, please come to me with them."
Martha walked down the broad stone steps of the school and over the lawn. It suddenly struck her that she was a student there now, and the knowledge made her feel lit up from the inside with joy. The busy noise of the city didn't feel strange to her anymore: its life was her life, the streets and stores and parks all hers to live in now. She practically ran along the street until a bicycle bumped into her. The rider shouted at her, and she slowed down, panting. Martha smiled, feeling as if the whole world was open to her.
***
Mrs. Williams, when Martha told her, nodded approvingly. "Teaching is a fine occupation for a young woman. Well, at least until she can find a husband."
"Yes, ma'am." Martha didn't mention that she'd come here to escape a would-be husband. If she ever married, it certainly wouldn't be like that, traded off by her father like some sort of livestock.
With the help of her cane, Mrs. Williams heaved herself up from the armchair and went toward her closet. "Would you take my blue dress to the laundry? I use the one down on Grange Avenue. It's run by the Chinese, but it's cheap, and they do know how to handle silks."
Martha had to ask directions once on her way to the laundry, but eventually found it. This part of town had plenty of Chinese people, and Martha sneaked sideways looks at them. She'd read about China in geography books, but it had seemed far away, and as abstract as trigonometry.
At the laundry, a Chinese girl her own age took the dress and gave her a slip of paper in return. The girl turned to say something to a man in the back, and Martha listened in fascination. She'd never heard a language she couldn't understand before. The girl was short and slim, with dark eyes and a long black braid down her back.
"When can I come back for the dress?" Martha asked, unsure whether the girl could speak English.
"Tomorrow, after three." She could, apparently, but she had an odd sort of accent Martha had never heard before.
"All right. And thank you." Martha paid with the money Miss Williams had given her and left.
That evening after cooking dinner, Martha sat down at her small desk in the attic and took out paper and pen. Using her very best cursive hand, she wrote:
22nd of August 1921
Dear Miss Edwards,
Forgive me for not writing to you as soon as I arrived in the city, but I simply couldn't think of anything but my interview. It is over now, and I can hardly believe that they accepted me as a student. I believe your letter of recommendation made all the difference, and I can't thank you enough for all that you've done for me.
As always, writing set Martha's mind at ease, and she poured her hopes and worries into the letter. She had no one to talk to here, no one who would care what she felt. Martha wrote until there was almost no space left, then at the very bottom:
If you see my mother, please tell her that I am doing well.
and then she signed her name neatly.
***
Martha spent most of the following day thoroughly cleaning Mrs. Williams' house, so that she would have less housework to do once school began. The first day would be tomorrow, and she wondered what it would be like.
In the afternoon, she shook out the dust from her apron and went out to pick up Mrs. Williams' dress at the laundry. Martha took a few deep breaths of the cold air. It had rained during the day, and the air felt fresh and newly cleaned, like the house. At the laundry, she handed her slip of paper to the same girl who had stood behind the counter last time. She looked at the paper and came back with a carefully wrapped package.
"Thank you," Martha said, and turned to leave, only to stop short at the sudden and fierce drumming of rain on the roof. She made a face as she looked out the door. Why hadn't she brought the umbrella that Mrs. Williams kept by the door?
"You can stay a while and see if it passes, if you like," said the girl.
"Thank you kindly," said Martha. She stood there awkwardly looking around the room, wondering what to do. There were pictures on the walls, fanciful drawings of dragons and trees and women with parasols. A back door stood ajar, and Martha could hear voices speaking in Chinese.
"Why do you live in Canada?" she asked. "I mean, instead of in China?"
The girl flinched and turned away. Martha bit her lip and realized that probably she had said something very tactless. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you."
The girl looked at her guardedly. "So you don't mean that we ought to go back?"
"No! That wasn't what I meant. I was only curious."
"All right." She relaxed a little, fiddling with her long black braid. "My father worked on the railroad out west, and when there was no more work there, he brought my mother over from China. I was born here. I mean, I've never been to China."
"What's your name?" Martha asked.
"Yinmui. What's yours?"
"Martha." She tried saying the girl's name. "Yinmui? Is that right?"
Yinmui slowly repeated her name, sounding different in some way Martha couldn't place.
"I moved to the city this week," Martha said, to try to fill the silence and to share her story in turn.
"Where are you working?" asked Yinmui.
"I'm a maid, but only part-time." Martha gestured toward the package she had come to pick up. "I'll be going to school, as well. I'm going to be a teacher." She felt almost afraid of saying it aloud, as if it could be taken away from her at any moment.
Yinmui's eyes widened. "Oh. I've always wanted to know how to read."
"You can't read?" Martha said, and felt tactless again for being surprised.
"No. Well, I can write my name in Chinese. But I don't know English writing at all." She looked a little defensive.
"What does Chinese writing look like? Can you show me?" They were interrupted by a man who stuck his head out the back door and said something to Yinmui. It was clearly a reproach, and she looked guilty.
"I'm sorry, I have to work," she said to Martha.
The rain had almost passed, and Martha took her package and went home through the drizzle.
***
School was both familiar and strange. The smell of chalk from the blackboard; sitting behind a desk, head bent over her notes—all this was familiar and reassuring to Martha. But the surroundings, and her classmates, were different, and not like the small one-room country school she had gone to before. The high windows and broad staircases of the school made her feel small, but the other students walked as if they belonged there. Some of them were boys, but most were girls. Many of them had short hair, and Martha felt old-fashioned with the knot at the back of her neck.
They all of them wore the same clothes, a school uniform with a pleated skirt and a long-sleeved sweater, so at least Martha had no worries about what she should wear.
It wasn't that they were unpleasant to her, or that they ignored her, exactly. The girl with the desk next to hers had been nice enough when Martha got up her courage enough to talk with her. But she still had a feeling that she didn't quite fit in.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Andersen taught English class. Martha felt her heart lift a little when she saw her, and she thought Mrs. Andersen had an extra smile for her. Martha was determined to do well, and she was confident that she could. This was school, even if it was a fancy school in the city, and she had always done well in her studies.
***
"Martha!"
At Mrs. Williams' voice, Martha halted on her way up the stairs. It was Saturday, and she had been hoping to do some studying now that her chores were done. "Ma'am?"
"You know I am having my cousin and his wife over tomorrow, and I don't believe we have any tea left. And I need to get one of my dresses cleaned."
"Yes, ma'am," Martha said with resignation, as she couldn't very well refuse. At least she had learned her way through the nearby streets now, and knew where to shop. She hurried through her errands, impatient to return to her studies.
There was a queue at the laundry, and when it was her turn Martha looked up to see Yinmui giving her a quick smile. Martha smiled back, forgetting her irritation.
"Wait," Yinmui said and rummaged under the counter. She handed Martha a folded piece of paper along with the one for the dress. Martha would have liked to stay and talk with her, but the woman behind her had already put her things forward. Martha left with an apologetic glance back.
In the street, she unfolded the paper. On it were two signs made out of many lines crossing each other in a careful pattern; Chinese writing, she supposed, and remembered that she had asked Yinmui about that the last time. She turned the paper up, then sideways, wondering how they were to be read and what they said.
The next day when she went to pick up the dress, she was the only customer there. Martha took the paper up, and asked, "What does it say?"
"It's my name: this sign is 'yin', and this is 'mui'." Yinmui traced each of them in turn.
"Oh. So it's only two signs for your whole name? In English you would need more letters than that."
"I can't really write, and my parents can't, either. My sister's husband just showed me how to draw my name. But 'mui' means 'plum', and 'yin' is 'swallow', the bird, you see."
"Plum swallow? What does that mean?" Martha frowned, curious.
Yinmui shrugged. "It's just a name, I suppose. What does your name mean?"
"Well, it's from the Bible," Martha said, but then trailed off. She had no idea what her name meant. "All right, I see what you mean," Martha said, amused at having the question turned around on her.
"How do you write my name in your letters?"
"I don't know the spelling, but something like this, perhaps?" Martha put down "Yinnmuy" on the paper next to the signs.
A customer came in to fetch her clothes, and Martha stepped to the side and waited until she had gone. "Do you work all the time?"
Yinmui glanced at the back, then sighed. "Most of the time. But we close early on Sundays."
"Would you like to...I don't know, visit with me? Or something?" Martha said, all in a rush, before she could think better of it. She held her breath.
Yinmui looked up, startled. "Well..." she said, hesitating. But then she nodded. "Yes, I'd like that. If you wait a little, I could come with you directly. It isn't late, so I might not get into trouble if I'm gone for a bit."
In a little while Martha was curled up on her bed in the attic, talking with Yinmui who sat on the other end of the bed. Yinmui had been a little stiff at first, but was leaning back against the wall next to the warm chimney now, talking more easily. It wasn't difficult to talk with her, no matter that she was Chinese. Perhaps it was simply that Martha felt she was a stranger in the city, and Yinmui, for all she was a city girl and had lived there all her life, did not quite belong either.
Yinmui was the youngest daughter in her family. "My parents wanted a son, of course," Yinmui said, "but they had three girls instead."
"I'm the eldest in my family. And I think my father wished I was a son, too," Martha said.
"So, your parents let you go off to the city to study?" Yinmui asked.
"No, they wanted me to marry, but I didn't want to. He wasn't a bad man, really, but I didn't want to get married. I wanted to study. So I ran away," Martha said, putting it plainly.
Yinmui looked astounded. "And did you know anyone in the city? How did you know where to go?"
"No, I didn't know anyone. My schoolteacher at home, Mrs. Edwards, helped me. She wrote me a letter of recommendation for the school, and helped me find a place with Mrs. Williams."
"Was it worth it, then? Running away?"
"Yes," Martha said, not letting herself hesitate even a little. "The school is everything I wanted; I love it." Honesty made her add, in a lower voice, "But I suppose I'm a little lonely sometimes. It's so different in the city."
"Will you be married, do you think?" Martha asked, to turn the conversation away from herself for a while.
"I don't know? Maybe I will." Yinmui looked thoughtful. "My mother says she wishes I'd stay at home. If my sisters and I all get married into other families, there will be no one to take care of her and my father when they grow old."
"But what do you want to do?"
"I don't know yet."
Martha nodded. Yinmui craned her head to look out the window, where the sun was beginning to set already. "I must be going, or my parents will be angry. They don't like me to mix with strangers."
They went down the stairs and Martha waved Yinmui off, her long black braid swinging at her back as she walked away. She turned around to go back up again, but found her way blocked by Mrs. Williams.
"Who was that, Martha?" she said, with an air of disgust, as if Yinmui were something the cat had dragged in.
"Her name is Yinmui. She works at the laundry," Martha said, surprised. She hadn't thought anything of bringing home friends, if only they were quiet and didn't disturb Mrs. Williams.
"I won't have any of those Chinese in my house. I don't know why they didn't stay in their own country, anyway. Thieving wretches."
Martha stared, then said reasonably, "Well, you trust them with your laundry."
"Don't be pert with me! You must have nice girls in your class, and why you prefer a Chinese girl over them, I'm sure I don't understand. I don't want to see her here again." With a final glare, she swept off.
Martha went up to her room and wrote a diary entry that would surely have meant the end of her employment should Mrs. Williams ever have read it.
***
It wasn't until Martha had been in the city several weeks that she discovered the library.
She'd been working hard at her studies, and one afternoon after school had ended for the day, she felt reluctant to go straight back to her stuffy attic. On a whim, she took a left turn instead of a right on her way home, and walked slower, looking at the city around her.
This was a quiet part of town, with none of the rush and rowdiness of the downtown streets. Well-dressed men and women went by in a businesslike way, and Martha felt a little out of place. But then she saw the sign on the large building she had almost passed by, and promptly forgot everything else.
'Toronto Reference Library' read the sign above the double doors, and Martha went up the steps. Could she go inside? Was this meant for ordinary people, or only for...she didn't know. Professors?
A woman opened the door and held it for Martha before hurrying down the steps, shoes clacking on the stone. Martha caught the door without thinking, and then, of course, she had to steal inside.
The space inside was large, but quiet. There was a desk close to the entrance, and the woman who sat behind it looked up at Martha's entrance.
"Can I...that is, is this library for everyone?" Martha asked.
"Of course. This is a public library, and loans are free. Would you like a card, so you can borrow books?"
"Yes! I mean, I would like that." The woman filled in Martha's name and address in a register and gave her a card and a leaflet with the loan rules. "Just go in and get what you like."
Martha took the card and thanked her, then went further into the building and let herself be lost among the bookshelves. They were tall, going up several shelves above her head, but not reaching the high ceiling. She ran her fingers reverently along leather spines with gilt letters, and ones bound in cloth, and newer, more cheap-looking books, with no hard covers. She passed through a section with books on astronomy, and opened books with maps of the sky, the constellations and stars marked with strange names. Next was a section on biology, with books that seemed to tally all the plants and animals of the world. She came to a section with books in foreign languages, turned her head sideways and shaped with her lips words that she didn't understand.
Martha had only just wandered through to the fiction shelves when someone tapped on her shoulder. She spun around in surprise.
"Do you want to borrow anything? We're closing now," the librarian said.
"Oh," said Martha. She had been too caught up in looking to decide on something to borrow. "No, I'll come back."
That night, Martha dreamed of endless shelves of books stretching out into the distance.
***
The weather grew colder as fall turned into winter, and snow covered the city. Martha looked out the window of the classroom and shivered a little, thinking of the walk home. She needed a winter coat, but didn't know where she could find one cheaply. Her old one had been worn out and threadbare and too small besides, and she had left it behind. Well, perhaps she could ask Yinmui the next time they met.
Martha brought her attention back to class. Miss Andersen was still talking about verbs and nouns, predicates and subjects and objects, and Martha had written it all down out of habit. She smothered a yawn, hoping no one had noticed. It was not that she didn't find the class interesting, but she was tired, having studied late into the night before. It was hard to make time for her studies—Mrs. Williams seemed to think all Martha's time ought to be spent doing housework. And Martha herself had had the ideal of cleanliness sternly imprinted on her since she was a small child. If she had been set a task, she wanted to do it properly.
There was a nudge at her elbow, and Martha looked down to see a folded note. Clara, who had the desk next to hers, was already looking attentively at Miss Andersen again. Martha surreptitiously unfolded the note.
Martha: Do you want to want to come with us to the theater tomorrow night? Annie and I are going.
Martha thought about it, then decided they were probably going to an expensive theater. And besides, she didn't have the time. She wrote a note declining as politely as she could, and handed it back to Clara.
***
Martha took to telling Mrs. Williams that she was going to the library to study. This was in many instances true, but it was also a convenient excuse for seeing Yinmui, and Martha felt that what Mrs. Williams didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
In any case, the library was a much nicer place to study than the attic. It had better light, for one thing, and comfortable chairs. She usually curled up in an armchair by one of the windows, in the history section of the library. There were also a couple of tables, for when she needed more room to write.
But there was also a drawback—with so many other books available, it was hard to stick with the one she ought to be reading. At the moment, Martha was wrestling with mathematics, which wasn't her strongest suit. She pulled absently at a strand of her hair that had come loose.
On the other side of the closest book case, there was a sudden thump, as of something falling to the floor. Glad of a distraction, she jumped up from the armchair and went to investigate. On the other side, a young man her own age was down on the floor, picking up a pile of fallen books. Martha bent down to help.
"No, you don't have to do that! I mean, it's my fault," he said, red in the face.
"That's all right," Martha said. "I wanted to get away from my book, anyway."
"You did? Then why are you reading it?"
"I have a exam on Thursday, so I really have no choice." They had stacked the books up neatly now, and Martha took a closer look at him. He had glasses and dark brown hair which he had obviously tried in vain to smooth down.
"Do you...uh, I've seen you here before." He folded his lanky arms and turned red again. "I mean, where are you studying?"
"I'm at the Toronto Normal School. And you? Are you a student, too?"
"Yes, I'm taking history right now."
"Oh, so I guess you can't help me with my mathematics, then."
"No, I'm sorry. It's my worst subject." He looked crestfallen.
Martha caught sight of the clock on the wall, and it was later than she had realized. "Oh, I'm sorry. I really must be going home now. But it was nice to meet you."
"Oh. Well, I won't keep you, then." He looked disappointed as she gathered up her books.
"Wait," he said as she turned to leave. "What's your name?"
"Martha," she said. "Martha Davis."
"I'm George Fraser."
***
She wasn't really surprised when George turned up again the next time she was at the library. This time, she was doing grammar exercises.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he said, hovering beside the table as if he wasn't sure whether she would say yes.
"No, not at all." She made room on the table, and he put his stack of books down beside hers.
"How did your exam go?"
"Oh, I passed it. Not with much points to spare, but I passed."
"Congratulations." George settled down to study, and Martha went back to her exercises after sneaking a look at his books, which seemed to be about the Roman Empire.
They both studied in silence for a while. Then George smothered a laugh, and Martha looked up.
"Do you know why August and July both have 31 days?" he said.
"No. But I suppose it's a little strange—all the other ones switch between 30 and 31, don't they?"
"Well, it says here that July is named after Julius Caesar, and when the Emperor Augustus had a month named after him, he didn't want to have fewer days, so he changed it to have 31 days, too."
"Ha. I suppose he had delusions of grandeur."
"Yes, well. He was an emperor, after all."
Martha appreciated the company, even though she perhaps got a little less schoolwork done. George walked her home after the library closed. It was snowing, large flakes that drifted slowly down to stick to her clothes.
"Where are you from?" George asked.
"Oh, you won't know it. It's a small village out west, and my parents were farmers. I mean, they are farmers. But I don't think I will ever see them again."
"Why not?"
"Well, I...I ran away," Martha said, glancing up at George to see his reaction to this. He only nodded and waited steadily for her to say more. "They wanted me to marry the neighbor's boy. He wasn't a bad sort, I dare say, but I wanted more. I always loved to read and study—I didn't want to just be a farmwife. So I left."
George nodded thoughtfully. "I'm the only one in my family to study, too. Everyone else is in the military. My father and one of my brothers is with the RCMP, in Whitehorse, and both of my brothers fought in the war. I was too young."
"Oh. And did you want to?"
He looked half ashamed, half defiant. "Not really. I mean, I would have gone, if I'd been old enough. It would have been my duty. But I'd have made a poor soldier—I always wanted to be a scholar."
They had reached Mrs. Williams' house now, and George took his leave. When Martha went inside, brushing the snow from her coat, she heard Mrs. Williams' cutting voice.
"Martha! What do you think you are doing, to walk around with a strange man at this hour? Why, you're behaving like a hussy! I won't have it, not in my house." She banged her cane in the floor for emphasis.
Martha gaped. "But I..."
She realized that there was probably nothing she could say to convince Mrs. Williams otherwise. Fuming, she retreated into the kitchen, where she composed scathing and somewhat contradictory retorts in her head:
Contrary to what you believe, I was having a perfectly innocent conversation with a fellow human being. You're the one with the dirty mind.
I thought you wanted me to find a husband? How do you suppose I should do that if I never talk with a man?
She wished with all her heart that she could take a room in a boarding house instead. But she didn't have the money for it, there was simply no getting around that. It wasn't likely that she could find a part-time job that would allow her to go to school in the daytime, if she didn't want to work as a maid.
Martha struggled with her pride, then went to humbly ask Mrs. Williams' pardon and assure her it wouldn't happen again.
Not where you can see it, at least, she silently added in her head.
***
She couldn't meet with Yinmui very often, as they were both busy. But one afternoon, Mrs. Williams was away visiting, and Martha stopped by the laundry to tell Yinmui so, and invite her to come by if she could. Martha knew Yinmui's parents wouldn't approve of this, so she waited until she didn't see them before opening the door.
"Oh, I can stop by, then," Yinmui said when Martha asked her. "I have a few errands to run, and I'll come after."
It was late afternoon when Yinmui knocked on the back door, and Martha heard her as she stood in the kitchen washing dishes. She shook the water off her hands and went to open. Yinmui had her hands full of groceries, which she set down on the kitchen counter. Martha made them some tea, and they went up the stairs to Martha's little room.
"What is 'tea' in Chinese?" she asked, blowing on the cup to cool it down enough to drink.
"Cha," Yinmui said. "At least where I come from."
"Are there different kinds of Chinese?"
"Yes, people speak differently in different provinces, but we're all Chinese. My family comes from Canton."
"Oh. Will you tell me some more words?"
Yinmui taught her a few words and phrases, and Martha struggled with them, saying them again and again until Yinmui gave her approval. It wasn't so much the sounds as the melody of the speech that was difficult, but she kept at it stubbornly.
"Will you be in trouble for being gone?" Martha asked. She wouldn't want Yinmui to have trouble on her account.
"A little, perhaps." She smiled behind her hand, a gesture Martha had seen her make before, and which made her seem more shy than she truly was. "Besides, I want to do things for myself sometimes. It's worth a little trouble." Yinmui hesitated. "I was wondering..."
"About what?"
"Is it hard to learn to read?"
Martha frowned, trying to recall what it was like. "I was so young when I learned—I don't remember how hard it was. But I'll teach you, if you like."
"Oh, would you?" Yinmui smiled brilliantly.
"Of course I will." Reading had given Martha the world, and she couldn't imagine not wanting to share that.
She reached for a sheet of paper and a pencil and wrote down the capital letter A. "There's one letter for every sound. This one is A. It's the sound in the beginning of 'apple', and 'age', for example."
Yinmui repeated the words and frowned. "But those are different sounds."
"Oh, you're right. Well, 'A' can sound either way." It proved to be more difficult than Martha had thought to teach someone to read. But then, it was good practice for her, and Yinmui was a quick study.
***
Martha's meetings with George in the library became a regular thing, until the librarians knew them both by sight.
Perversely, it was Mrs. Williams' scolding that put the idea of George as a potential suitor into Martha's mind. She was sure she hadn't thought of George that way before, but now she kept noticing little things, such as how his hands looked when they curved around the pen, and how there were little blotches of ink on his fingers, from where he fiddled with the pen while he was thinking. She tried not to dwell on it, though—why ruin what looked to be a perfectly good friendship? Besides, it galled her to let Mrs. Williams be in the right.
It was only that she had never known any boys like him before. At the Normal School, the boys kept aloof and didn't mingle much with the girls, and the boys in her village had been coarse, and would rather pull the girls' hair than talk with them. But George—she could talk with him, and share things that she had read or thought of, and he would smile and listen to her.
***
"There's a Halloween party tonight at Sherbourne House, do you want to come?" Clara asked while packing up her books.
"But I have nothing to wear," Martha said, stalling a little.
"Oh, that doesn't matter. Some people will be in costume, but not everyone. You can come however you like. Come on, it will do you good—you're so serious all the time." Clara smiled encouragingly.
Am I really? Martha thought. "All right, I'll come."
"Splendid! We'll see you at seven, then."
Sherbourne House was decked out in lanterns, looking gay and festive. Martha had never been there before, though she had heard of it—it was the largest supervised boarding house for girls in the city. Clara met her at the door, talking animatedly.
"Martha, hello! There'll be dancing soon. No men allowed, more's the pity, but it's great fun anyway. Oh, Amanda, I didn't know you'd be here!" Clara turned in the crowd to greet another girl she seemed to know, and Martha took a look around.
They were in a large hall with groups of armchairs and low tables. It looked comfortably lived-in and was full of women, some her own age and some older. There was a swirl of movement, of talking, laughter, skirts sweeping past. Music came from somewhere in the house, and Clara took hold of her arm and led her further in. She saw another girl from her class, who smiled and waved at her.
Clara vanished onto the dance floor, and Martha backed up to a wall and just looked. She was just as happy not to be asked up, since she couldn't dance very well. Perhaps she ought to learn.
Martha blinked at the sight of one of the nearest couples. Hadn't Clara said no men were allowed here? He was short, and dressed in a black suit, with a moustache. But as the couple finished the dance with a flourish, Martha saw the unmistakably feminine curves of the chest. She stared, and almost didn't notice Clara tugging at her sleeve.
"Come on and dance!" She followed Martha's eyes. "Oh, that's Mamie. She won the prize for best costume last year, isn't she swell?"
Martha nodded wordlessly, busy with trying to figure out how to dance. Clara slid her arm around Martha's back, tugging her closer. "Don't worry, I'll do the leading. You just follow along."
It did seem to be easier when she didn't think, and then Martha was lost among the dancers, couples in queer costumes whirling by, some with skirts shorter than she had ever seen, some with feathers, or hats, and another woman dressed up like a man holding a partner close.
Martha left the party early, so as not to be out on the streets too late, but she wished she could have stayed. It was not as though she had talked to many people—in fact, she'd felt quite awkward—but Sherbourne House somehow had a warmth to it, as if the girls living in it had left imprints of their loves and hopes and secrets in the very walls of the house.
***
"Come on out." George turned around on the ice to face her and smiled, holding out his hands.
Martha held onto the wooden rink, not entirely trusting the two thin blades of metal on her rented skates. Around her, the skating rink was full of city people on holiday: couples who skated sedately hand in hand, groups of girls, little children who darted to and fro so quickly she could not understand why they didn't fall or crash together more often. That last decided her: if the children could do it, so could she.
She held out her arms for balance and pushed off. Unsteadily, she stood on her own, and then took a few tentative strokes. George held out his hand, but Martha skated past him. Well, this wasn't so difficult after all. She turned her head to tell George so, which of course was when she slipped and landed unceremoniously on her backside.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes. I was just going to tell you that it wasn't so hard," she said, getting up again and dusting off her coat.
"Pride goeth before a fall," he intoned in mock reproach, and she smiled.
Martha tried again, and got the hang of it quickly. As long as she didn't try anything fancy, she could skate along reasonably well. She didn't take George's arm, although she was sure he would have been glad to offer it. They were not a couple, after all.
"How did you learn to skate so well?" she asked him. He wasn't showing off, but she could see from the easy grace of his movements that this was certainly not the first time he went skating.
He ducked his head. "Well, my brothers and I used to go skating on the river together. They were much older and faster than me, and I had to work to keep up. It was good practice, I suppose."
Martha swerved to the side to avoid a careening little boy. She managed to avoid falling by waving her arms wildly in the air. When she looked up, George was grinning. It looked good on him.
Martha quashed her own answering smile. "I'm beginning to think that you only wanted to see me looking foolish."
"If I did, it would be only because you're so good at everything else."
Martha reddened. Compliments were not something she was used to, and she wasn't quite sure how to handle them. But he hadn't said it as if he were being gallant. That was why she liked him, she realized—because he treated her more like a friend than like a girl.
They finished one slow round of the rink and made another one, a little faster. After that, Martha's ankles ached with the unfamiliar exercise on the somewhat wobbly skates, and they sat down to take them off.
"I liked this," Martha said. "And it's not so expensive—I might try it again, if I have time."
"Tell me if you do, and I'll come with you. I miss skating."
They walked part of the way home together. When George turned aside to head for his rooming house, he said, "Well, I'll see you on Wednesday at the library?"
"Oh, yes. And I'll bring you back that book of yours—I keep forgetting."
"There's no hurry." And then he came closer, hesitating a moment. She could have turned her head aside if she had wanted to, but she didn't, and he kissed her, a quick soft press of his lips against hers. Then he drew back, blushing, and walked quickly away down the street.
Well, so much for not treating her as a girl. But she found she didn't mind, after all.
***
Clara came and coaxed Martha out of the house the next Saturday. She knocked on the back door, and Mrs. Williams, who had spotted her from her usual place in the armchair by the window, came around to see who it was. Clara seemed to pass inspection in her fancy coat, because Mrs. Williams nodded approvingly at them before they left.
Martha couldn't help but contrast this to the reception that Mrs. Williams had given Yinmui. She wondered what Yinmui was doing now. Working, no doubt; Saturday was a busy day at the laundry.
"You need to get out some," Clara told Martha. "Otherwise you'll go cross-eyed over all those books. I am sure you will do well on the test anyway; you always do."
"Well, it isn't only studying, I need to work as well," Martha said, feeling slightly resentful. Clara's family was fairly rich, and paid for her tuition and board.
"Oh, of course, I do see that. But still, you need to have some fun. Otherwise, what's the use of working so hard?" Clara said. "Now, let's go down to Yonge Street and do some Christmas shopping."
Yonge Street was lit up with Christmas decorations, extravagant lights and garlands in all the windows of the shops. There were colorful billboards advertising everything under the sun. And everywhere there were people, their cheeks rosy from the cold, going into shops and coming out with bags and packages in their hands. Martha looked at the fancy dresses in the shop windows and shook her head. Like as not, she'd just have felt out of place in finery like that. Besides, she couldn't have afforded it—she had bought a winter coat some time ago, and that had been expensive.
Clara made purchase after purchase, until she was laden with bags. "Don't you have anyone to buy Christmas presents for?" Clara asked, and Martha considered.
She did, she realized. She could buy a present for George, and one for Yinmui. Nothing expensive, of course, but still. She thought of her family briefly, but left the thought unfinished.
Finally, she selected a new pen for George and some chocolate for Yinmui, who had quite a sweet tooth. She frowned when she realized that Yinmui's family probably didn't celebrate Christmas, but thought that she wouldn't mind a present, anyway.
"So what would you like for Christmas, then?" Clara asked her.
"Me? I don't know." It hadn't crossed her mind to wish for anything for herself.
"Come on, there must be something. If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?"
Well, her shoes were wearing out, but she suspected that was not the kind of thing Clara was talking about. Martha bit her lip, thinking.
"A bicycle, perhaps," she finally said. She didn't mind walking to school, but it took time, and it was time that she could use for a better purpose. Besides, she had always wanted to try riding on one.
"Oh, you could have my old one if you wanted to," Clara said.
"No, I couldn't possibly take your bicycle," Martha protested. It was too much.
Clara waved her objections away. "I have another one now, and no one is using the old one, anyway. Of course you should have it! Although I shouldn't have said anything until Christmas. Well, too late for that now."
"Well, if you insist," Martha said. "Thank you so much, Clara."
"You're welcome. I'm glad it'll come to use. Now, let me treat you to tea?" Clara said, and swept Martha into a tea salon before she could protest.
"Thank you kindly," Martha said, still uncomfortable. She didn't want to rely on Clara's kindness for everything.
They had tea and cakes, and Clara told of her the latest gossip with great relish. "So did you hear about Mary and Tom? Laura saw them kissing behind the school. I wouldn't want to be them if the teachers find out."
"No, I hadn't heard," Martha said. Mary and Tom were both in their class, but Martha hadn't noticed that they were spending time together.
"Don't you have any sweetheart, Martha?" Clara asked.
"Ah," Martha said, trying to stall.
Clara pounced on this at once as evidence of secret romance. "Oh, you do! Tell me about it. Is it someone at school?"
"No. And anyway, there's nothing to tell," Martha protested.
"Oh, come now, I don't believe that." And Clara wheedled the story out of her: how she had met George at the library, and that they met for studying sometimes, and had gone skating together.
"That is so romantic!" Clara declared.
"Well, we mostly just study together."
"And is he handsome?"
"I suppose he is good-looking enough." George wasn't handsome in a classical way, but Martha did find him very charming, with his unruly hair and shy smile. She wasn't ready to say so to Clara, though.
When they had finished their tea, they strolled back along the street, their breath making clouds in the cold air. They passed by the window of a drugstore, and Clara pointed slyly at the advertisement in the window. Rubber goods of all kinds sold.
"Perhaps you ought to go in and get some?" She elbowed Martha meaningfully.
"Get what?" Martha frowned in confusion.
"So he won't, you know, get you in the family way," Clara said with a wink. "But I'm sure you're careful."
Martha looked down in the street, cheeks flaming hot, even though she didn't quite understand what rubber had to do with it. It was not as though she didn't know where children came from, but for Clara to talk about it like this! Perhaps city girls were more outspoken. And Clara did like to tease her.
Later, Martha thought it over and tucked the information about the drugstore away in her mind. Not that she and George...well, she hadn't planned anything of the sort, really, but it never hurt to be prepared. How would that rubber thing work, anyway? If she could get past her embarrassment, perhaps she could ask at the drugstore.
Any unmarried girl would worry about getting with child, but Martha thought defiantly that she might not want a baby even if she were married. She thought about her mother and how she was always tired, never doing anything but caring for all the children. That was why Martha had run away, after all—she didn't want to live like that.
***
Clara brought her old bicycle to school next week. "I'm afraid it's a bit rusty," she said. "It's been standing outdoors. And one of the tires is flat."
"Oh, thank you, Clara!" Martha said. "I'm sure it can be fixed."
Martha led the bicycle home after school, wondering how on Earth to ride on it. It seemed impossible that one wouldn't tip over to the side and fall. She stopped by Yinmui's family's laundry on her way home and peered in through the window. Yinmui saw her and came out.
"A bicycle? Is it yours?" Martha told her how she had got it, and Yinmui knelt down to look.
"The chain is very rusty," she said. "And the tire is flat. But it looks good otherwise."
"Do you know how to fix it?" Yinmui's family had a bicycle that was used to deliver clean laundry, and Yinmui used it sometimes when she had errands to run.
"Me? No. But my cousin has a repair-shop just down the street. If you go there and tell him I sent you, he'll give you a good price."
"Thank you, I will." Martha gestured toward the bicycle and asked, in Chinese, what it was called. This was a phrase she had much use for. Yinmui told her the word for "bicycle", and Martha repeated it. If asked, Martha would have found it hard to explain why she was learning Chinese. It was something she didn't know, and so she wanted to learn it.
She abandoned her limited Chinese and went back to English. "I can't imagine how people ride these things without falling over."
"It's not so hard. But the streets are all icy now. Are you sure you don't want to wait until spring?"
"But isn't it softer to land in the snow?"
Yinmui laughed. "Well, you will be the one with the bruises. You can come over tomorrow and I'll help you—it's easier if someone holds the bicycle in the beginning."
Martha did acquire quite a few bruises. After the fourth time she fell, she got up again and looked at Yinmui, who was out of breath after running down the street next to Martha on the bicycle. Her breath made white puffs in the cold air.
"Does it get easier?" Martha asked, rubbing her shin, which had banged against the frame again.
"Yes, it does. And it's easier to go fast than to go slow."
"Easier to break your neck, too," Martha muttered, but she got up to try again.
***
"Congratulations, Martha!" George hugged her quickly, then stood back and beamed at her.
"Thank you," Martha said happily. She and George had both done well in their last exams before Christmas, and they were sitting in George's small room in a cheap rooming house. This was perhaps not very proper, but Martha felt so happy at their shared success that she could not bring herself to care. Besides, as long as she could be home before her curfew, nobody would know. And she trusted George.
"The way you studied, of course you did well," George said.
That was true, she had studied each night until she was ready to fall asleep over her books, and one night had even done that, waking up a few hours later with creases on her face from the papers. But she had done well, as indeed she had expected she would. Martha wondered somewhat guiltily if pride like this might backfire in some way.
"As if you didn't stay up in the night, as well," Martha replied.
"Well, yes, but it was worth it," George said with a yawn. He took one of the sweets they had bought for celebrating. Martha reached for one, too, revealing the bruise on her arm.
"Did you hurt yourself?" George asked, frowning. He stroked her arm lightly with the back of his fingers. Martha shivered.
"One of the girls at school gave me her old bicycle. I'm trying to ride it."
"Is it hard?"
Martha shrugged. "I'll learn. Do you know how to ride?"
George shook his head. "We had more use for snowshoes in Whitehorse."
"It will be useful for getting to school with, when I can ride it." Martha took another sweet, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. She had never had such things when she lived at home, and it seemed almost sinfully sweet.
"Where do you want to go, when you're a teacher?" George asked. "Do you want to stay in the city, or go to a school out in the country?"
"Well..." Martha trailed off, suddenly struck by the thought that she had never really imagined herself in a classroom, teaching little children.
"A penny for your thoughts, Martha?" George said. "You look so serious."
Martha spoke slowly, figuring out what she wanted to say as she was saying it. "I think I only applied to be a teacher because that was the only way I knew of that I could study. I admired my schoolteacher so much. She was independent, and knew so much, and I wanted to be like her."
"So what do you really want?"
"I don't know. It's not that I would mind teaching children, exactly, but...I have to think about it. I just want to study more. And use it, somehow."
"Well, if you want to study more, perhaps you should just go and live in the library," George said with a smile.
"If only I could," Martha said wistfully, thinking of all those books. Then she saw what time it was, and jumped up from the bed. "Oh, I have to go home, or Mrs. Williams will scold me."
She was still thinking as she walked home. George had kissed her good-night before she left, and she had put her arms up around his neck and returned the kiss. He had offered to walk her home, but Martha had declined the offer. She wanted some time alone.
Her feet found their own way, familiar now with the streets of the city as they had not been half a year ago. When she went to bed that night in her attic, she pulled the blankets up to her chin and curled up on her side to keep the warmth in. She was tired and on the verge of sinking down into sleep.
I have time, she thought drowsily. I'll figure out what I want, and I'll do it, too.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-10-07 09:30 am (UTC)Martha is in her late teens, but I never decided on an exact age. And no, the reference book didn't mention libraries at all--it was mostly focused on working-class women. I used Google for information on the library (and the Toronto Reference Library did really exist).
(no subject)
Date: 2010-10-08 04:20 am (UTC)