himself. So he must have seen me, even though he was staring down into Mr. Graflex's innards. He goes around to the front of the camera and flips a little lever no bigger than a lapette right on the edge of the eye.
I walk over to watch.
“Grace, I meant you to stay by the frame,” he says. “Now I'll have to focus again.”
I reach out and touch the black folds that push the eye back and forth. “My father's accordion looks like this.”
“Those are the bellows,” he says. “Now, when you go back to your machine, don't stand too close. I don't want you to hurt yourself.”
I laugh. “Marie won't hurt me,” I tell him. “She's my good girl.”
He looks confused.
“My frame. You've got Monsieur Graflex and I've got Mademoiselle Marie.”
“You don't miss much, do you, Mademoiselle Grace,” he says, and he's smiling again.
“No, I don't,” I say. I wish my mother would tell me something like that. “What's in your pocket?”
He glances around nervously.
“Don't worry. French Johnny ain't paying no attention,” I tell him. “He's working on Delia's clearing boards. She's my sister and she's got two of the worst frames in the room. What's in your pocket?” I ask again.
He slides out the most perfect little notebook I've ever seen and a pencil. “I'm taking notes.”
“About me?”
“Yes. Your name and height and the age you say you are.”
“You take notes in your pocket?”
“It's a trick I learned a long time ago. I keep the pencil pressed against the paper and the paper pressed against my leg bone. Most times I can read what I've written. Can you read?”
“Sure. I can count and spell too. Give me the little book and I'll show you.” He pulls it out and hands it to me. I squat down to write my name with his nubbly pencil, but just like he said, it's there already. Miss Lesley would tell him his writing is nothing but a messy scribble, but I can make it out.
Grace, 48 inches, says she's 14.
He's been doing these notes the whole time we've been talking with his hand hidden in his pocket.
“How many sides do you doff?” he asks. He's pulling a black square thing out of his shoulder pouch.
“Twelve.”
“That's a lot.”
“My mother is top spinner and she's got six frames. Six times two makes twelve sides. One hundred and thirty-six bobbins to a side times twelve makes one thousand six hundred and thirty-two.”
He looks surprised by how high I can count. “How many of you kids work in the mill?”
“About twenty or so.”
“Put down their names and ages for me,” he says. He's already figured out how to make his voice cross under the noise in the room.
Now he's opening the back of the camera, sliding in the metal square from his pouch, and I can tell his hands know what they're doing. He's as fast with his picture-taking machine as Mamère is with her frames.
Arthur
, I write.
12. Dougie. 10.
He just started last week. Henry told us it put Miss Lesley in one of her bad moods when French Johnny come for him.
Briget. 13.
Her name looks funny but I keep going. The little pencil keeps digging into the cut on the inside of my hand, but I pay no mind. My letters are slanting the way Miss Lesley likes, but each one takes such a long time. If Arthur was the one doing the writing, he'd be finished by now.
“You go to school?” Mr. Hine asks.
“Not no more. But Miss Lesley gives me and Arthur lessons on Sundays.” Now I'm the one checking to see who's listening to us. “I won't tell about your pocket notes if you don't tell about my schooling.”
“Deal,” he says. “I'd like to meet this Miss Lesley.” Now he's shaking some white powder like flour onto a flat box on the floor.
“The school's up the hill,” I tell him. I tuck the notebook deep into the folds of my skirt ‘cause I can feel Mamère poking her head around every time she gets to the end of a row. Edwin is down ready to be doffed and Thérèseis going to be right behind. Looks like I'll be working
I walk over to watch.
“Grace, I meant you to stay by the frame,” he says. “Now I'll have to focus again.”
I reach out and touch the black folds that push the eye back and forth. “My father's accordion looks like this.”
“Those are the bellows,” he says. “Now, when you go back to your machine, don't stand too close. I don't want you to hurt yourself.”
I laugh. “Marie won't hurt me,” I tell him. “She's my good girl.”
He looks confused.
“My frame. You've got Monsieur Graflex and I've got Mademoiselle Marie.”
“You don't miss much, do you, Mademoiselle Grace,” he says, and he's smiling again.
“No, I don't,” I say. I wish my mother would tell me something like that. “What's in your pocket?”
He glances around nervously.
“Don't worry. French Johnny ain't paying no attention,” I tell him. “He's working on Delia's clearing boards. She's my sister and she's got two of the worst frames in the room. What's in your pocket?” I ask again.
He slides out the most perfect little notebook I've ever seen and a pencil. “I'm taking notes.”
“About me?”
“Yes. Your name and height and the age you say you are.”
“You take notes in your pocket?”
“It's a trick I learned a long time ago. I keep the pencil pressed against the paper and the paper pressed against my leg bone. Most times I can read what I've written. Can you read?”
“Sure. I can count and spell too. Give me the little book and I'll show you.” He pulls it out and hands it to me. I squat down to write my name with his nubbly pencil, but just like he said, it's there already. Miss Lesley would tell him his writing is nothing but a messy scribble, but I can make it out.
Grace, 48 inches, says she's 14.
He's been doing these notes the whole time we've been talking with his hand hidden in his pocket.
“How many sides do you doff?” he asks. He's pulling a black square thing out of his shoulder pouch.
“Twelve.”
“That's a lot.”
“My mother is top spinner and she's got six frames. Six times two makes twelve sides. One hundred and thirty-six bobbins to a side times twelve makes one thousand six hundred and thirty-two.”
He looks surprised by how high I can count. “How many of you kids work in the mill?”
“About twenty or so.”
“Put down their names and ages for me,” he says. He's already figured out how to make his voice cross under the noise in the room.
Now he's opening the back of the camera, sliding in the metal square from his pouch, and I can tell his hands know what they're doing. He's as fast with his picture-taking machine as Mamère is with her frames.
Arthur
, I write.
12. Dougie. 10.
He just started last week. Henry told us it put Miss Lesley in one of her bad moods when French Johnny come for him.
Briget. 13.
Her name looks funny but I keep going. The little pencil keeps digging into the cut on the inside of my hand, but I pay no mind. My letters are slanting the way Miss Lesley likes, but each one takes such a long time. If Arthur was the one doing the writing, he'd be finished by now.
“You go to school?” Mr. Hine asks.
“Not no more. But Miss Lesley gives me and Arthur lessons on Sundays.” Now I'm the one checking to see who's listening to us. “I won't tell about your pocket notes if you don't tell about my schooling.”
“Deal,” he says. “I'd like to meet this Miss Lesley.” Now he's shaking some white powder like flour onto a flat box on the floor.
“The school's up the hill,” I tell him. I tuck the notebook deep into the folds of my skirt ‘cause I can feel Mamère poking her head around every time she gets to the end of a row. Edwin is down ready to be doffed and Thérèseis going to be right behind. Looks like I'll be working
Similar Books
