Mary learned more about Mrs. McEwen after she moved back to the city. She had a fancy goods shop and her husband was a private investigator, hence the sign on the front lawn. It was no secret that a well-to-do auntie had left them her summer home in Goderich.
The job, however, only lasted two months until the girl she’d been replacing was well enough to return. She found another general servant position and spent her days cleaning and doing laundry for a family of seven. It was similar to her job in Goderich, but without Sadie’s company and the advantage of a beach and beautiful lake.
Mary celebrated Christmas alone in her room above the kitchen. She strung popcorn and cranberries and draped it across the top of her window. Red tissue paper over the lamp and a small green candle in a jelly jar she’d picked up at the market gave her tiny room a festive look in spite of the absence of a tree and gifts. She felt fortunate in many ways. She had a job, a little money, and a roof over her head, but, more importantly, she had her independence.
January was a chilly month and everyone worked hard at keeping warm. She remembered the day that she’d stopped at the busy newsstand on the corner of Dundas and Richmond for a package of gum. People were mulling around, talking about the headlines in the London Free Press. Queen Victoria was dying. Mary remembered singing “God Save the Queen” at the orphanage and had been taught to show respect for Her Majesty, the lady whose portrait hung on the wall in the dining room. She didn’t know how to react to the latest news but sensed a general sadness in the air.
As evening shadowed London on January 22, 1901, a tired old lady slipped out of the world. Victoria, Queen of England, had ruled one-quarter of the earth, one in every five persons on the planet. One could travel around the globe secure in British law and custom, the nearest thing to a world government that man had ever known. Values were stable, business expansive, and progress was more of the new gospel. Victoria had always tried to keep things as they were. But now Victoria was gone, and with her an age.[2]
The Queen’s passing made the headlines of newspapers and magazines across the country and was the topic of conversation on every street corner. Journalists penned their thoughts and tried to do justice to the passing of a Royal figure, a Queen who had meant so much to Britain as well as other countries in the Empire. It wouldn’t be until four years later that Mary thought about Queen Victoria again. At that time her late Royal Majesty took on a more personal meaning.
Mary flitted from job to job like a bee searching for nectar. When things became intolerable in one situation, she had no choice but to look for another position. It was Mary’s lucky day when she saw Mrs. Balfour’s ad in the paper: “WANTED — AT ONCE, A GOOD GENERAL servant; in exchange for 3 meals a day, own room, $9 a month. Apply 440 Maple Street.”
She arrived at the woman’s doorstep, having walked fifteen blocks. Mary was down to her last fifty cents. Her present job was babysitting two-year old Henry, “Henry the handful.” Although he was a little monster, that wasn’t the reason she wanted to leave. Henry’s mom, a waitress who worked evenings, was often unable to pay Mary.
“I’m a little short tonight. I’ll pay you the day after tomorrow. You know I’m good for it and Henry loves you so.” Mary had stayed longer than she should have, for the little boy’s sake.
Mrs. Jenny Balfour, a short, round, plumpish lady with beautiful white hair, wiped her hands on her faded blue gingham apron and answered the gentle knock. Mary quickly inquired if the position was still open.
“Oh, I assumed someone more … mature would answer my ad,” she said.
“I’m almost seventeen and I’ve worked as a domestic since I was eight,” Mary replied. The woman ushered her into her quaint but cluttered front room. After brief introductions, she was invited to stay for morning tea. Mrs. Balfour said very little about the job and seemed more interested in chatting about her personal philosophy on life.
A small black cat appeared in the doorway. Mary’s heart skipped a beat remembering Mustard, the yellow barn cat she’d befriended on the farm. The cat meandered into the room ignoring both of them, climbed up on the windowsill, and fell asleep in the sun.
“What’s his name?” Mary asked.
“It’s Barney, but he went without one for quite a while. I found him curled up on my doorstep one cold, snowy morning last December. Felt kinda sorry for the little fella, just skin and bone. I gave him a saucer of buttermilk; he curled up by the warm stove and pretty much decided to stay. Everybody called him something different. He got Blacky, Midnight, and Patch for the white spot on his paw, which made sense, but none of them suited him. He was quiet and didn’t bother much with people, probably been a stray too long.”
“So how’d you end up with Barney?”
“I’m coming around to where I want to be,” she said, letting out a big sigh. “About the same time he arrived, I had a boarder by the name of Barney Huntley … the old codger. He wasn’t the friendliest sort, kept to himself, real quiet, but paid his rent on time. I asked him one day if he had any kin and he shook his head. So I said, ‘how would you like a cat named after you?’ It was one of the few times I’d ever seen him smile.” Mary remained silent, knowing there was more to the story.
“Poor man had a heart condition and a few months later he died, in that room right above your head,” she said, pointing upward with her index finger. Mary looked up and silently prayed that that room wasn’t going to be hers. “That’s how Barney got his name.”
“I had a cat once, his name was Mustard. It was a long time ago.”
“You said you’d worked as a domestic for a number of years.”
“Almost ten,” she said, realizing she was exaggerating slightly. “I cleaned, dusted, prepared meals, helped at sewing bees, and even baked bread and canned preserves,” she replied with confidence.
“I’m curious as to why would you’d have done all those things at such an early age.”
Mary was cautious about sharing her past and paused momentarily. “My parents passed away and I was left to fend for myself,” she said, having no intention of telling her that she’d been sent to an orphanage and become a home child. “I went to school and I can read,” she paused, realizing that that probably wouldn’t help secure the job, “and I’m a good worker,” she added. Mary thought Mrs. Balfour looked a little too old to have children at home but asked anyway.
“I have a son and a daughter.” She picked up a small pewter frame housing an old black and white photo of a young couple holding hands. She wiped the dust off with a corner of her apron and handed it to her. “My daughter Martha and her husband Malcolm live in Toronto. It’s too far for many visits but my son-in-law is in the coal business and had to go where there’s work. No children unfortunately, which means no grandchildren for me,” she said sadly putting it back on the bookshelf.
“And your son?”
She shook her head and looked out the window. “He died three years ago, three years next month, down at the docks in Hamilton Harbour. Thomas was a chainman in the foundry. They said it was a freak accident with the electric brake on an overhead crane. Lost my husband too, a long time ago. Life hasn’t always been kind, but I’ve learned to put my faith in the Almighty.”
She took a breath and continued, “That’s when I started to take in boarders. Thomas used to help out but he didn’t have a lot to spare. I’ve always done the cleaning myself but my arthritis has been acting up lately. Never had help before, kind of hate to admit I need it. Martha wants me to come and live with them. I’m putting it off as long as I can manage,”