washroom.
“There’s no sitting down, you know,” Alice admonished when Maureen perched on the stool behind the counter during a slow period. “They’ll dock your pay for that—didn’t Old Blood and Thunder tell you?”
Maureen stood immediately. “Blood and Thunder?”
“That’s what we call Mrs. Gordon, the floor supervisor,” Alice whispered. “Suits her, don’t you think?”
Maureen watched from the corner of her eye as Mrs. Gordon severely reprimanded a quivering and shame-faced clerk for not clearing her counter of unwanted merchandise quickly enough after a sale. Maureen thought it a perfect name.
Before the end of the day, Maureen had learned to read a sales slip aloud to customers. But at closing she still did not completely understand the money and was thankful beyond words that all transactions were carried out on the floor below. Her too-small secondhand boots had rubbed blisters across her toes, and the backs of her heels bled until raw. Mrs. Melkford’s breakfast seemed but a dim and distant memory.
“You’d best bring a lunch with you tomorrow,” Alice advised. “You can eat in the cloakroom. If you’re here for the whole day, you’ll get a lunch break—but only half an hour. There’s hardly enough time to go out, and besides, bringing it along will save you.”
Maureen had not thought that far ahead. “I’m wonderin’ if you might know of a house of lodgin’ for ladies—something nearby that’s not too dear.”
“Why on earth do you want to know about lodging? I heard you’re living with some high-and-mighties.”
“Word travels quickly.” Maureen looked away and folded the cover of her sales book over. “It isn’t for me. No, it’s for my sister, you see. She’ll be comin’ to stay soon, and we thought we’d like a place of our own—eventually.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.” Alice sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d like to live up with the swells or over in Gramercy Park.” She looked pointedly at Maureen. “But then I wouldn’t want them telling me this and telling me that. We get enough lording it over in the store.”
“It’s nice to have a bit of privacy, isn’t it?” Maureen confided.
Alice nodded, the first hint of camaraderie between them. “Here.” She tore the bottom off a sales receipt and scribbled a name. “Mrs. Grieser owns a tenement on Orchard Street—ask anyone; it’s a couple buildings past the corner of Orchard and Delancey, down on the Lower East Side. You’ll have to watch out for the fellas in the Bowery, and it’s a bit of a hike in bad weather, but not so far you can’t manage. You can take a trolley if you must.” Alice passed her the slip of paper. “Tell her that Alice Draper sent you—she’ll give you a good rate and a safe room.” She hesitated. “Just use her side door. The front opens a few doors from a bar. Make no mistake.”
“Thank you!” Maureen nearly hugged her.
“You might not thank me—it’s not the Ritz, and it’s certainly not the Wakefields. But it will do for a place of your own to start. If your sister’s working too, you’ll do all right.”
The front doors were closed and locked; a bell rang through the store.
“That’s it for today!” Alice sang over her shoulder, already trotting toward the cloakroom. “See you tomorrow—soak those feet!”
Maureen smiled as she buttoned her very American secondhand cloak. Her feet ached, her stomach gnawed and growled, and she had blocks and blocks to walk to find Orchard Street in the hope of sleeping a few hours before starting it all again. But she was gainfully employed in a fine and respectable department store, she had the letter in her pocket that she needed to have Katie Rose released into her care, and she’d spent her first day dressed not as a lady’s maid, but as an American shopgirl.
Pinning her hat in place, she whispered to the mirror above the dressing room shelf, “Well, then, Maureen O’Reilly—shopgirl.”
“There’s no sitting down, you know,” Alice admonished when Maureen perched on the stool behind the counter during a slow period. “They’ll dock your pay for that—didn’t Old Blood and Thunder tell you?”
Maureen stood immediately. “Blood and Thunder?”
“That’s what we call Mrs. Gordon, the floor supervisor,” Alice whispered. “Suits her, don’t you think?”
Maureen watched from the corner of her eye as Mrs. Gordon severely reprimanded a quivering and shame-faced clerk for not clearing her counter of unwanted merchandise quickly enough after a sale. Maureen thought it a perfect name.
Before the end of the day, Maureen had learned to read a sales slip aloud to customers. But at closing she still did not completely understand the money and was thankful beyond words that all transactions were carried out on the floor below. Her too-small secondhand boots had rubbed blisters across her toes, and the backs of her heels bled until raw. Mrs. Melkford’s breakfast seemed but a dim and distant memory.
“You’d best bring a lunch with you tomorrow,” Alice advised. “You can eat in the cloakroom. If you’re here for the whole day, you’ll get a lunch break—but only half an hour. There’s hardly enough time to go out, and besides, bringing it along will save you.”
Maureen had not thought that far ahead. “I’m wonderin’ if you might know of a house of lodgin’ for ladies—something nearby that’s not too dear.”
“Why on earth do you want to know about lodging? I heard you’re living with some high-and-mighties.”
“Word travels quickly.” Maureen looked away and folded the cover of her sales book over. “It isn’t for me. No, it’s for my sister, you see. She’ll be comin’ to stay soon, and we thought we’d like a place of our own—eventually.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.” Alice sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d like to live up with the swells or over in Gramercy Park.” She looked pointedly at Maureen. “But then I wouldn’t want them telling me this and telling me that. We get enough lording it over in the store.”
“It’s nice to have a bit of privacy, isn’t it?” Maureen confided.
Alice nodded, the first hint of camaraderie between them. “Here.” She tore the bottom off a sales receipt and scribbled a name. “Mrs. Grieser owns a tenement on Orchard Street—ask anyone; it’s a couple buildings past the corner of Orchard and Delancey, down on the Lower East Side. You’ll have to watch out for the fellas in the Bowery, and it’s a bit of a hike in bad weather, but not so far you can’t manage. You can take a trolley if you must.” Alice passed her the slip of paper. “Tell her that Alice Draper sent you—she’ll give you a good rate and a safe room.” She hesitated. “Just use her side door. The front opens a few doors from a bar. Make no mistake.”
“Thank you!” Maureen nearly hugged her.
“You might not thank me—it’s not the Ritz, and it’s certainly not the Wakefields. But it will do for a place of your own to start. If your sister’s working too, you’ll do all right.”
The front doors were closed and locked; a bell rang through the store.
“That’s it for today!” Alice sang over her shoulder, already trotting toward the cloakroom. “See you tomorrow—soak those feet!”
Maureen smiled as she buttoned her very American secondhand cloak. Her feet ached, her stomach gnawed and growled, and she had blocks and blocks to walk to find Orchard Street in the hope of sleeping a few hours before starting it all again. But she was gainfully employed in a fine and respectable department store, she had the letter in her pocket that she needed to have Katie Rose released into her care, and she’d spent her first day dressed not as a lady’s maid, but as an American shopgirl.
Pinning her hat in place, she whispered to the mirror above the dressing room shelf, “Well, then, Maureen O’Reilly—shopgirl.”
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