Night
and
Good Morning–
waiting for her medicine. She’ll be eyeing the hands of the big clock, under its domed-shaped glass case, that sits on the mantel next to the photograph of poor Mr. Dunn.
I dust the silver frame every day of the week, so I’m getting to know his face quite well. I think he died to get away from the sound of Mrs. Dunn’s voice and the sight of her long face, not of a heart attack at all. He’s been dead for fifteen years, but she talks as if he’s about to come in through the door for supper any minute. No one dares to sit in his chair at mealtimes.
There’s hardly anyone out on the streets now, and I’m out of breath because I ran almost all the way back along the dusty boardwalk. Mr. Madill warned me to get home because we’re in for a big electric storm. I get back indoors just before the first peal of thunder.
Miss Alice sends me up with beef tea for Mrs. Dunn. I put her medicine on the tray, bracing myself for a scolding, but a big clap of thunder silences her, and I excuse myself and go downstairs. Miss Alice points to a heap of potatoes that I’m to peel for tonight’s supper. When I’ve finished those, there’s rhubarb to prepare for pies.
Miss Alice goes upstairs to sit with her sister and I do my chores to the sound of the scullery windows rattling.I count ten lightning strikes before the rain begins to come down in great big welcome drops, barrels and buckets of it.
It’s the first night I’ve waited at table that Mrs. Dunn hasn’t come down to supper, which is served punctually at six o’clock. My place is by the sideboard, where I’ve carried the dishes of food. Miss Alice is always the last to enter, her round face flushed, her hands smelling of flour and cinnamon. Then Mrs. Dunn says, “At last you are here, sister,” as if she’s been out walking instead of cooking and baking. We lower our heads, while Mrs. Dunn says grace.
Mrs. Selena Dunn is not at all like Miss Alice, who loves to cook and eat and is as plump as a pudding. Mrs. Dunn is pale, thin, and stern, and her opinion is law. She will not be interrupted or contradicted. They refer to each other as sister, but you can tell who is in charge. Mrs. Dunn sits at the head of the table. Miss Alice sits beside her sister, and Mr. George Bell, who works at the barbershop on Simcoe Street, sits between Miss Alice and Miss Emma Bartley. Mr. Bell’s hair is very shiny and black–there is always a ring of grease on his pillowcase, which has to be boiled extra long to remove the stain. Miss Bartley, who shares a room with Mrs. Minnie Pratt, works as an alteration hand at Turnbull’s Department Store. Mrs. Dunn has instructed me to tell her if I find any pins onthe floor of their room because she says, “I will not permit my premises to be used for business purposes.”
Miss Emma is very pretty, with long golden corkscrew curls. Mr. Bell is most attentive to her. One evening, when Miss Emma spilt some water on her skirt, Mr. Bell helped her mop it up with his napkin, and then they both blushed crimson when Mrs. Dunn told me to fetch a dry napkin.
My favorite boarder is Mrs. Minnie Pratt. She is a widow; her husband died only three weeks after their wedding day. He was killed in a hunting accident at Fenelon Falls. A wedding picture is on a dresser in her room. He looks such a happy young man. Mrs. Pratt moved here to take a business course at Peterborough Business College–that’s the big building on the corner of Hunter and George Streets.
Mrs. Florence, who comes in on Mondays to do the heavy laundry, mutters about the boarders as we scrub away. She doesn’t expect a reply, not that I’ve enough breath to speak after carrying steaming pots of water into the scullery and pulling sheets through the wringer, but I do enjoy hearing her gossip.
Mrs. Pratt is a very new widow, only nineteen years old. Sometimes I see her eyes fill with tears at the table, for no reason at all, and then she wipes them with an
and
Good Morning–
waiting for her medicine. She’ll be eyeing the hands of the big clock, under its domed-shaped glass case, that sits on the mantel next to the photograph of poor Mr. Dunn.
I dust the silver frame every day of the week, so I’m getting to know his face quite well. I think he died to get away from the sound of Mrs. Dunn’s voice and the sight of her long face, not of a heart attack at all. He’s been dead for fifteen years, but she talks as if he’s about to come in through the door for supper any minute. No one dares to sit in his chair at mealtimes.
There’s hardly anyone out on the streets now, and I’m out of breath because I ran almost all the way back along the dusty boardwalk. Mr. Madill warned me to get home because we’re in for a big electric storm. I get back indoors just before the first peal of thunder.
Miss Alice sends me up with beef tea for Mrs. Dunn. I put her medicine on the tray, bracing myself for a scolding, but a big clap of thunder silences her, and I excuse myself and go downstairs. Miss Alice points to a heap of potatoes that I’m to peel for tonight’s supper. When I’ve finished those, there’s rhubarb to prepare for pies.
Miss Alice goes upstairs to sit with her sister and I do my chores to the sound of the scullery windows rattling.I count ten lightning strikes before the rain begins to come down in great big welcome drops, barrels and buckets of it.
It’s the first night I’ve waited at table that Mrs. Dunn hasn’t come down to supper, which is served punctually at six o’clock. My place is by the sideboard, where I’ve carried the dishes of food. Miss Alice is always the last to enter, her round face flushed, her hands smelling of flour and cinnamon. Then Mrs. Dunn says, “At last you are here, sister,” as if she’s been out walking instead of cooking and baking. We lower our heads, while Mrs. Dunn says grace.
Mrs. Selena Dunn is not at all like Miss Alice, who loves to cook and eat and is as plump as a pudding. Mrs. Dunn is pale, thin, and stern, and her opinion is law. She will not be interrupted or contradicted. They refer to each other as sister, but you can tell who is in charge. Mrs. Dunn sits at the head of the table. Miss Alice sits beside her sister, and Mr. George Bell, who works at the barbershop on Simcoe Street, sits between Miss Alice and Miss Emma Bartley. Mr. Bell’s hair is very shiny and black–there is always a ring of grease on his pillowcase, which has to be boiled extra long to remove the stain. Miss Bartley, who shares a room with Mrs. Minnie Pratt, works as an alteration hand at Turnbull’s Department Store. Mrs. Dunn has instructed me to tell her if I find any pins onthe floor of their room because she says, “I will not permit my premises to be used for business purposes.”
Miss Emma is very pretty, with long golden corkscrew curls. Mr. Bell is most attentive to her. One evening, when Miss Emma spilt some water on her skirt, Mr. Bell helped her mop it up with his napkin, and then they both blushed crimson when Mrs. Dunn told me to fetch a dry napkin.
My favorite boarder is Mrs. Minnie Pratt. She is a widow; her husband died only three weeks after their wedding day. He was killed in a hunting accident at Fenelon Falls. A wedding picture is on a dresser in her room. He looks such a happy young man. Mrs. Pratt moved here to take a business course at Peterborough Business College–that’s the big building on the corner of Hunter and George Streets.
Mrs. Florence, who comes in on Mondays to do the heavy laundry, mutters about the boarders as we scrub away. She doesn’t expect a reply, not that I’ve enough breath to speak after carrying steaming pots of water into the scullery and pulling sheets through the wringer, but I do enjoy hearing her gossip.
Mrs. Pratt is a very new widow, only nineteen years old. Sometimes I see her eyes fill with tears at the table, for no reason at all, and then she wipes them with an
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