Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1927
C lara
A gull screeches from beyond the closed bedroom window. Seldom do I find myself crawling out of bed after the sun has risen. Then again, I think as I draw the bedroom curtain back to reveal the day, the sun must have decided to sleep late too. The grey beyond the window causes me to wrap my housecoat tighter around my shoulders. Craning my neck, I look toward the sky. The clouds threaten rain, sleet, or perhaps even the city’s first snowfall of the season.
Stifling a yawn, I pad to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. A note on the counter tells me Papa is working an extra shift with his parks crew. Vancouver features many green spaces throughout the city and preparing them for winter takes almost as much time as planting and trimming does come spring. My mind clears as I pour boiling water over tea leaves, the scent wafting up to wake me. Louisa must have left early for her audition, so that means I have a day full of household chores to contend with on my own.
I relish the quiet of the apartment and settle myself on the sofa with my cup of tea. There is no rush to get started, so I decide a slow start to the morning is precisely what I need to recover from the workweek. I wouldn’t have thought an evening at the theatre would be enough to wear me out, but apparently I have become accustomed to the simple life of balancing a full-time work schedule with the tasks at home. Or maybe it is purely this dark, dreary December that has got me dragging my feet.
Louisa has left a pile of her movie magazines on the floor beside the sofa. Placing my cup of tea on the table, I reach for the glossy cover on top and flip through the pages. I can see the allure of the glitz and glamour. There is a sense of escape with each turned page, as smiling faces in vibrant gowns and top hats make me wonder if these actors’ lives are truly this dazzling.
I pick up my teacup and alternate between small sips and page flips, the morning’s obligations settling somewhere in the back of my mind. Teacup raised to my lips, my hand shakes and the splash of hot liquid startles me. An image of an older man kissing the hand of a young woman appears in front of me. In bold, bright colours, the advertisement turns my stomach, and the tea suddenly feels like a bad idea.
Returning the cup to the table, I take a closer look at the advertisement for soda pop. The advertised product doesn’t offend my senses in any way. I read the words, trying to determine what has caused such a heart-jumping reaction in me. The advert is quite tame in nature, and the woman pictured shows far less skin than others in the same magazine.
I am about to blame my response on sleeping too late when the pictured man’s beady eyes elicit another punch to my empty stomach. The way his flushed cheeks set off the gleam in his bright blue eyes sends an unsettling shiver down my spine. Without words to convince me of his intentions, all I see is an uncomfortable situation for the young woman.
My mind flashes back to my encounter with Mr. Barnes. I toss the magazine to the pile on the floor and stand with as much assuredness as I can muster. Don’t be so silly, I tell myself as I empty my tea down the kitchen drain. The man was only being friendly and appreciative of my service.
Deciding that having food in my stomach is a sensible plan, I make a late breakfast of toast and eggs, determined to push any thoughts of Mr. Barnes from my mind. By the time I’ve finished breakfast, I have a task list written on a piece of paper and am eager to tackle the day.
Even after scrubbing the week’s laundry, my thoughts are still as saturated as my hands. The more I consider Mr. Barnes’ words, the deeper my spiral of uncertainty swirls. His parting comments play on repeat through my mind. I will be back in town next week. I look forward to getting to know you better then.
The damp winter weather forces me to put each piece of clothing through the wringer twice, which is, thankfully, physically exhausting and provides an outlet for my unease. I place the drying rack near the kitchen, butted up against our dining table. The apartment’s compact size is a blessing and a curse. The small space will allow the warmth from the bread baking in the oven to speed the drying of clothes, but the position of the drying rack means I will be bumping into it for the remainder of the day.
The more I think about my encounter with Mr. Barnes, the more questions I have. Why in the world would a hotel guest need to get to know me better? As Hamilton maids, we are trained to disappear into the woodwork. Becoming invisible is part of the job and, when done well, is said to make a guest’s stay that much more pleasant. I’m not sure why Mr. Barnes seems to want the exact opposite. All I am certain of is that if I want any chance of being awarded the holiday bonus of a week’s salary, then I must ensure Mr. Barnes’ stay at The Hamilton is precisely to his liking.
Though I know I must persevere in being the best eighth-floor maid I can possibly be, I can’t help but sense something is amiss when it comes to Mr. Barnes. It is unusual for a guest to stay at the hotel more often than once every few months, and it certainly isn’t typical for anyone travelling by train to return to Vancouver in such a short period of time.
I attempt to shake the troubling thought from my mind with a sharp jerk of my head. Louisa has told me on more than one occasion that my tendency to overthink things will not serve me well. Maybe she is right.
Hanging the last of Louisa’s dresses on the drying rack, I consider how to best put my worries aside and do as an eighth-floor maid is expected. I check the time on my watch; the scent of the baking bread informs me it is ready to be pulled from the oven. I leave the oven door ajar to warm the apartment a degree or two more and relish the whoosh of hot air as it rises toward me. With the bread cooling and the hand-crank washer tucked in the closet, I try to distract myself with the mail that has gathered over the week.
A Spencer’s holiday booklet featuring new winter styles for men, women, and children catches my attention. The ten pages full of colourful suits, dresses, shoes, hats, and winter outerwear reminds me of the small booklet Ms. Thompson gave me on my first day of training as an eighth-floor maid. I read through it quickly during my lunch break, vowing to reread the instructions every evening before retiring for bed. I kept the information close, tucked away for safe keeping in the bedroom I share with Louisa.
I leave the remaining mail sitting on the kitchen counter and head to the bedroom. Keen to find answers to my questions, I open my bedside table drawer, where the booklet is stashed, along with my notebook. I sit on my bed and pull them into my lap.
Tucked within the notebook is William’s recent letter, handed to me by Ms. Thompson and hidden from Louisa’s prying eyes. My fingers grace the envelope, the roughly torn edges leaving little question of my eagerness to hear from him. A pang of guilt grips me, knowing I have yet to reply. Between the announcement in his letter, his telephone call, and the growing awareness that our friendship may be tottering on the edge of something more, I have yet to find the right words to respond.
Despite my desire to read his words again, I place William’s letter beside me on the bed and turn my attention to the booklet of instructions. With only twelve pages, the booklet is direct in nature. I can feel Mr. Olson’s input in the wording of the policies, which assures me of their reliability, as I scan the final page of dos and don’ts for an eighth-floor maid.
1. Tidy uniforms and spotless aprons are required while tending to guest suites.
2. Cleaning carts are to be kept out of sight and are never to be left unattended in the hallway. Keep your cart with you inside the suite, and store it in its designated cupboard when not in use.
3. Hotel guests desire privacy. Do not assume a guest has vacated a suite. Always knock and announce yourself three times prior to entering a suite.
4. An eighth-floor maid must be courteous and attentive to their guests’ needs at all times. Each guest’s experience is of the utmost importance and should be at the forefront of your mind.
The list goes on, but the fourth item mentioned clears up any uncertainty about my duties. As a maid, I am to ensure a guest’s needs are met at all times. My job is to put Mr. Barnes’ needs first while he is a guest at The Hamilton.
With the decision made for me, I tuck the notebook back into the booklet. William’s letter calls to me as though the man himself is standing before me, and I find myself unable to turn away from his attention.
The crisp page, filled with writing in William’s hand, slides with ease from its cream-coloured envelope. My fingers grace the slightly raised edge of his barrister’s company logo printed at the top of the page. I knew he was a lawyer from his previous letters, but this correspondence is the first I’ve received on formal letterhead. I question briefly whether the formality of the stationary contributed to the careful consideration I am giving his invitation.
Before William, no gentleman had ever paid me such attention. I am only seventeen, after all, but I also lack awareness of such things. In person, he is disarming and genuine and quite accustomed to putting others at ease. His manner may come from the seven years he has lived beyond my own, or perhaps from a career that requires such confidence. Either way, I find everything about William both exhilarating and terrifying.
I scan the few paragraphs of his straight cursive script, his tidy and assured hand only furthering the directness of the words written there.
Dear Clara,
I hope by this time, you will permit me to call you by your first name. If not, perhaps I have misinterpreted our previous communication. If that is the case, simply disregard the rest of this letter to save me from embarrassing myself.
At the risk of appearing too forward, I wanted to inform you that I will be visiting Vancouver over the holiday season. I will be staying at The Hotel Hamilton at the request of Mr. Olson, whom you should know is a long-time family friend. Though I am certain we will bump into one another at the hotel, the reason for my letter is twofold.
Though I am coming to celebrate the holidays with my sister, spending time with you is at the top of my list. I did not wish my arrival there to catch you unaware or to be misinterpreted. Clara, seeing you was the first thing that came to mind when my sister suggested the visit.
If you will allow me, it would be my great honour to invite you to dinner while I am in the city. I expect to be in Vancouver no later than the twenty-third, but if I can secure earlier travel arrangements, I am eager to do so, if only for the chance to spend more time with you.
I am looking forward to seeing you.
Yours sincerely,
William
Folding the letter and tucking it within the envelope, I consider his words. He surely sent the letter before telephoning last Sunday to wish me well for my first day on the eighth floor, yet he didn’t mention his impending visit. I suppose even the dashing and self-assured William Thompson may be a tad shy when it comes to a dinner invitation.
I am unable to suppress the smile that seems determined to lift my cheeks at the mere thought of seeing him again so soon. I contemplate returning his letter with one of my own, but I find myself in unfamiliar territory, uncertain of so many things when it comes to William Thompson.