Indigo Christmas (13 page)

“Ooh!” said Erik, but he said it quietly, with a glance at his brother.

“—and Christmas is only three weeks away. Yes, Erik, before you burst from wanting to ask, there will be presents for everyone. Not big things, you know. We will ask people for donations, and I think they will give, but there are many boys who—who will want a gift.” She had almost said
need
. It was tiresome being so careful of her speech, she who had said exactly what she thought all her life, but she didn't want to hurt any feelings.

“I will give,” said Sven. “I have little money to give, but I can make good toys. And Mama and the girls can maybe make scarves and hats and mittens.”

“Thank you!” Hilda was truly grateful. “I am not so good at knitting and sewing—”

There was a roar of laughter, in which even Patrick joined, for Hilda's total lack of needlework skills was a joke in the family.

“Well, I said I am not! I am not good at making anything with my hands, even cooking.”

“I can teach you to cook,” said Gudrun eagerly, at the same moment that Mama made a sour face and said, “But you have a cook to do that for you.”

Hilda could not let that awkwardness continue. “Yes, we have a cook, and Patrick is fortunate that we do, for if he had to eat my cooking he would starve.” Patrick looked so bland that sister Elsa stifled a giggle. “But we may not always be so lucky,” Hilda pursued, “so I think it would be better for me to learn a little. I would be happy, Mama, if you would teach me, too. You and Gudrun are the best cooks I know.”

Mama looked slightly mollified, and nodded, but Sven frowned. “Do you mean that Patrick may lose his job, so you cannot afford a cook? That would be very serious. You are working hard,
ja,
Patrick?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes, my uncle seems happy with me. I admit that times are bad and folks aren't buying as much at the store as they sometimes do, but there's no chance I'll lose me job. I wish I could say as much for everybody in town. I'm worried by these bank failures all over the state.”

“I meant only,” put in Hilda, “that Mrs. O'Rourke, our cook, has a very bad temper and threatens every week to leave us.”

“Yoost like the Irish. Undependable,” muttered Mama.

“If she ever does,” said Hilda, ignoring her mother, “it will not be easy to find another cook. So I must learn. Mama, Gudrun, I know you are busy with Christmas baking now. May I come and help one day, and learn?”

“On me knees, ma'am!” said Patrick. He pushed his chair back and fell to his knees, looking up at Mrs. Johansson in the attitude of a begging dog.

Everyone roared except Mama, who said, “Get up, Patrick,” with would-be severity. But Hilda was sure her mother was hiding a smile.

When the afternoon was finally over and Hilda and Patrick were heading home in the carriage, Hilda had one more touchy subject to discuss. They always took Elsa back with them to Tippecanoe Place, where she now worked and lived. She was required to be in by twilight, and the carriage ride meant she could spend a few more minutes with her family.

“Elsa,” said Hilda, and then stopped.

“
Ja?”
said Elsa dreamily. She was thinking about Kris Olsson, who had smiled at her three times in church that morning. He was a very handsome boy…

“Elsa, I will be at Tippecanoe Place tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why? It is not my afternoon out, and I will not have time to talk. Some ladies are coming and I will have to help with the tea. Hilda, there is a new waitress again, and she is no use at all! She—”

“I am one of the ladies.”

Elsa sat with her mouth open as she worked out the implications. Then she laughed. “I hope I am in the room when you come. I want to see Mr. Williams have to welcome you as a guest!”

Hilda was taken aback. She saw nothing funny in the situation. Awkward, humiliating perhaps, but not funny. But then, Elsa had always had the least imagination of the younger children. She couldn't see Hilda's deep embarrassment, only the ridiculous side of things.

Hilda wished she were gifted with such a matter-of-fact outlook on life, but she could always see where pitfalls lay. Walking around them was becoming exhausting.

Once Elsa had said good-bye and gone into the magnificent house, Hilda could speak her mind.

“It is like walking in the chickens' nests!” she exploded.

“Walkin' on eggs, I suppose you mean,” said Patrick lazily. He loved teasing her about her English.

“Hah! You have maybe never tried to find eggs that the chickens have hidden, climbing over beams in the hay barn, wondering if you will fall off or crush the eggs. And I
know
you have never done that in skirts that twist around your ankles and trip you up. I said what I meant to say, so there!”

Patrick kissed the tip of her nose. “And what is like walkin' in the nests, then?”

“Talking to my family today! I cannot say this, I must not say that, I must be careful always not to remind them we are richer than they are. And you may not show you are angry when they say bad things about the Irish or hint that you are idle and shiftless.”

“But I'm not angry, darlin' girl. I like them all, even your mama. She's just repeatin' what she's heard everybody else say about the Irish, not really meanin' it. And Sven wasn't hintin'. He's your big brother. He wants life to be good for you, and so do I. And Elsa, o' course—she sees about as far as the end of her own nose. She wouldn't hurt a fly unless it landed on that nose.”

Hilda smiled, but went back to her grievance. “They do not like it when people talk about dumb Swedes. Why can they not see talking badly about the Irish is the same thing?”

“Dunno, but lots are like them. Don't want to be insulted themselves, but don't care if they insult other folks.”

“That is not Christian,” said Hilda firmly. “The Golden Rule—”

“Don't reckon they think about it that way. Don't reckon they think about it atall. Do ye know nobody else whose mouth gets goin' ahead of their mind?”

“Mmm.” Hilda quieted. She could remember all too many times when her own tongue had hurried ahead of her better judgment.

“And it's gettin' better. Your ma was laughin' inside when I played the fool, I'll swear, for all she sounded so stern. Don't worry about it so much, me girl. Just be yourself and love them, and things will come right in the end.”

“The end is a long time coming,” said Hilda tartly, but she pulled up his hand and laid it against her cheek.

Their house was utterly quiet when they entered. The servants had Sundays off, and Hilda, more lenient than a butler, did not ask them to be back until eight o'clock. There was no sound from upstairs, either.

“The baby must be asleep,” said Hilda, “but what about Norah and the nurse and Mrs. Murphy? Do you think something has—has happened?”

A door opened quietly and soft footsteps sounded. Hilda started up the stairs.

“Quiet, if you please, madam,” said a soft but firm voice. A white skirt came into view, crackling as it moved. “Mrs. O'Neill and the baby
and
Mrs. Murphy are all asleep.”

“How is Mrs. O'Neill?” asked Hilda in a whisper.

The nurse came around the corner and gestured downstairs. Hilda obeyed. The nurse was as forceful as any butler, if somewhat less heavy-handed in manner. If anyone could get Norah to eat and take her medicine, Hilda thought, it was Miss Pickerell.

“I don't like to talk about a patient where she can hear,” said the nurse when they reached the front hall, “even if I think she's asleep. She is somewhat better. Mr. O'Neill went to church and brought the priest back with him. I left them alone, of course, but I believe he said a few prayers with her, and baptized that little lamb of a child. If
she
were my only patient, I'd have nothing to do! Sweetest, quietest baby I've ever seen. But Mrs. O'Neill…” The nurse shook her head. “She ate a good supper and took her tonic, though her mother fussed about it as usual. But she makes no effort, even when her husband talks to her. Just lies there and cries. We'll start doing something about that soon,” said Miss Pickerell confidently.

“Yes,” said Hilda, hoping it was true. “And Sean? Is he also asleep?”

“Mr. O'Neill has gone home. He must work tomorrow, and Mrs. O'Neill is too tired even to talk to him.”

“Miss Pickerell, what is
wrong
with Norah? The doctor says only that she is run down.”

“Well, of course I'm not a doctor. But there is something called anemia—something to do with the blood. No one knows much about it, but I've done enough nursing to know that poor people, who don't eat enough meat, seem to have it more than rich ones, and women more than men. And of course Mrs. O'Neill's just had a baby, so it's natural that she's tired. She'll pull out of it in time, if I have anything to say about it. Mrs. Cavanaugh, don't you worry. keep Mrs. O'Neill cheerful, keep giving her good food, and she'll be fine. She just needs a firm hand.”

And Miss Pickerell crackled away, her starched skirts emphasizing the firm treatment Norah was going to receive, whether she liked it or not.

Highest Award is Given to the Starr
Piano Co. at the World's Fair

—Elbel Bros. Music Store ad
    South Bend
Tribune
   
December 1904

 

 

14

T
HAT EVENING after a little cold supper, Hilda and Patrick sat in the parlor, grateful for a glowing fire and a glass of wine, and most of all for peace and quiet. The past few days had demanded much of them.

“I am glad the nurse is here,” said Hilda. “I feel now there is not so much for me to do for Norah and the baby.”

“You never did
have
to do anything much,” said Patrick. “Been a whole pack o' women about the place to do what was needed.”

“I know, but Norah is my friend. I wanted to help. Patrick, I do not know what is to become of them. If Sean loses his job—or if he goes to jail—”

“Between us, darlin', we'll see he doesn't go to jail. As for his job, that's a worry for certain.”

“Patrick, did you mean what you said to Sven today? That your job is safe? or were you only pretending, so we would not worry?”

“I'm a partner in Malloy's, darlin'. Half the business is mine. As long as there is a business, I have a job, and a fine one it is. And Malloy's is sound. Uncle Dan's built the store up graduallike and kept it runnin' with cash.”

Hilda frowned. “I do not understand. Money is what runs every business. Not?”

Patrick smiled. “There's money and money. I've been learnin' a lot about business these past few months. Y'see, a lot of people, startin' out, will borrow money to get things movin'. Say it's dry goods, like Uncle Dan. Well, you have to have money to buy the things you're goin' to sell, and if you start big, sellin' lots o' goods, you have to have lots of money. And that's not all. You rent a building, you hire people to work, you have insurance—oh, there's no end to what you need before you ever earn a penny. So you borrow from a bank. And if everything goes right, you can make enough money to pay your rent and pay the people who work for you and pay back the bank, a bit at a time, and still have enough left over to buy more goods to sell, and even some to live on. If things don't go so well, you don't live so well. If things get really bad, maybe the bank decides it wants its money back. So it calls in the loan, and there you are with no money left to pay anything, and you're ruined.”

“But—but that is frightening! Patrick, are you sure—we have this house, and servants, and food, and everything is very expensive—”

“Don't be getting in a stew, Hilda me love. I told you Malloy's is sound. That's because Uncle Dan never borrowed a penny to start the store. He worked for other people for years, and he and Molly saved every cent they could put away. Then when he had enough to go off on his own, he started small. Had a ittybitty store, sellin' linens an' dress goods. He and Molly did all the work, so they didn't have to pay anybody else, and hard work it was, too. You'll have to get Molly to tell you about it sometime. She's a small woman, but blessed saints, the energy she has! And they didn't live in that fine house, neither. Lived above the store, and happy as a pair o' larks, to hear her tell it. And they saved more, and when they had a bit put by, they built up their stock, little by little, till they had to find a bigger place to put it all. And that's how Dan got where he is now, workin' hard, and doin' it all with his own money. He's got a lot saved, too, so if there's a slump in business, he has enough to keep goin' for a long time, and without anybody losing a job, neither. That's what I meant by doin' business with cash.

“But that's not the way of it with everybody these days, more's the pity. This outfit Sean works for…” Patrick shook his head. “His brothers and his cousins, we all tried to tell him not to leave Birdsell's. He had a good job there. They maybe don't pay the highest wages in town, but they're dependable, and they make a good product. As long as farmers raise clover for feed, they'll need clover-hullers, and Birdsell makes the best in this part o' the country. But no, Sean said he had a wife now, and a baby comin', and he could get higher wages at the new bicycle factory. now I'm not sayin' Black's isn't a good place to work, because it is. Sam Black's a decent man, from what I hear, and he treats his men right. But he's thinkin' about gettin' into motorcars, and he's borrowed money left and right, and there's talk he won't be able to pay it back if a bank calls in the loan.”

Hilda felt cold. “And it might do that?”

“Farmer's Bank's only been around two, three years, and it's owned by a new man in town, name of Townsend. They don't only lend to farmers, though that's their main business. If Black borrowed money from them—well, the word is, Farmer's isn't doin' too good. If they fail, a lot of people could be in big trouble.”