affronted.
A week later, her mother gave her the good news: she had found a real job for Claire. It was a job in which she could contribute, decently, to the familyâs income, and to her grandmotherâs burgeoning medical bills in particular. It had come from one of the well-dressed men who sometimes sauntered in from the opulent English-speaking wards, to walk the length of a working-class francophone street â Montcalm, Wolfe, Visitation â just to recruit a jeune fille for some affluent household to the west. A jeune fille was a kind of live-in maid, a position that offered an (often welcome) elimination of freedom for the teenage girl involved while paying entirely for her (assumed) lavish room and board, as well as sending a dependable cheque for her services directly to the familyâs mailbox every month, for between eight and twenty dollars. Claireâs mother was elated to tell her that sheâd been hired out for seventeen dollars. Just think of the way Claire would be helping her grandmother, sheâd said.
A showy touring car picked Claire up and drove her across town, to the other side of the Main, into another world, one where people spoke another language entirely, held other customs, and had very different expectations. They pulled up in front of a stout brick mansion on Sherbrooke Street with classical white columns and a tight shield of lawn. She was given a brief tour of the interior, massive salons with oriental rugs and posh furniture, many of the rooms guarded by the low and swirling citadels of marble fireplaces. She was then led to a small room in the basement, her very own, next to the laundry facilities. It smelled of bleached mildew. That first evening, the woman of the house came down to make sure she was settling in all right. She was excessively cordial, and before bidding her a âsimply spl en did, mag ni ficent first sleep,â she handed Claire a welcome gift. A textbook on advanced English from France.
Claire spent the next days being schooled in her duties and responsibilities, straining to understand the exhaustive instructions in English. The woman was patient with Claire, and tirelessly repeated herself. Eventually, Claire knew enough to be left on her own to work, though the tasks were much harder than sheâd imagined. She was barred from contact with people, cleaning unused rooms to a sheen, passing carpet sweepers over the endless rugs, lathering expensive clothes across a washboard. In the first forty-eight hours she thought of running away several times, but on top of letting her father and grandmother down, she knew several girls her own age, other adagio dancers, who had run away from home and were now struggling to make it on their own in an unforgiving city, joining the ranks of the desperate and impoverished majority. These girls tended to show up to work less and dance less, as their obligations to establishments in le Red Light persistently increased. Claire reasoned that, while working as a jeune fille was only temporary, before she left her post she would have to have at least some kind of plan or assurance in place. Besides, she reasoned, at least she still had her Wednesday evening dance classes to look forward to.
That Wednesday, after washing the dishes and eating her dinner (at her station, on a stool at the kitchen counter), she changed her clothes and asked for something she thought was quite reasonable, a dime for a return trip on the tram that ran the length of Sherbrooke Street, to where her dance school was located in the east end. She stood before the couple, in her clothes for going out, a small bag containing her dance attire on her shoulder. The man and woman looked at each other, shocked. Finally the woman, stuttering to start off, explained that no, Claire could not leave the house on Wednesday evenings, or ever, really, except for the twelve hours on Easter and on Christmas Day that had been agreed to in the contract.
As
A week later, her mother gave her the good news: she had found a real job for Claire. It was a job in which she could contribute, decently, to the familyâs income, and to her grandmotherâs burgeoning medical bills in particular. It had come from one of the well-dressed men who sometimes sauntered in from the opulent English-speaking wards, to walk the length of a working-class francophone street â Montcalm, Wolfe, Visitation â just to recruit a jeune fille for some affluent household to the west. A jeune fille was a kind of live-in maid, a position that offered an (often welcome) elimination of freedom for the teenage girl involved while paying entirely for her (assumed) lavish room and board, as well as sending a dependable cheque for her services directly to the familyâs mailbox every month, for between eight and twenty dollars. Claireâs mother was elated to tell her that sheâd been hired out for seventeen dollars. Just think of the way Claire would be helping her grandmother, sheâd said.
A showy touring car picked Claire up and drove her across town, to the other side of the Main, into another world, one where people spoke another language entirely, held other customs, and had very different expectations. They pulled up in front of a stout brick mansion on Sherbrooke Street with classical white columns and a tight shield of lawn. She was given a brief tour of the interior, massive salons with oriental rugs and posh furniture, many of the rooms guarded by the low and swirling citadels of marble fireplaces. She was then led to a small room in the basement, her very own, next to the laundry facilities. It smelled of bleached mildew. That first evening, the woman of the house came down to make sure she was settling in all right. She was excessively cordial, and before bidding her a âsimply spl en did, mag ni ficent first sleep,â she handed Claire a welcome gift. A textbook on advanced English from France.
Claire spent the next days being schooled in her duties and responsibilities, straining to understand the exhaustive instructions in English. The woman was patient with Claire, and tirelessly repeated herself. Eventually, Claire knew enough to be left on her own to work, though the tasks were much harder than sheâd imagined. She was barred from contact with people, cleaning unused rooms to a sheen, passing carpet sweepers over the endless rugs, lathering expensive clothes across a washboard. In the first forty-eight hours she thought of running away several times, but on top of letting her father and grandmother down, she knew several girls her own age, other adagio dancers, who had run away from home and were now struggling to make it on their own in an unforgiving city, joining the ranks of the desperate and impoverished majority. These girls tended to show up to work less and dance less, as their obligations to establishments in le Red Light persistently increased. Claire reasoned that, while working as a jeune fille was only temporary, before she left her post she would have to have at least some kind of plan or assurance in place. Besides, she reasoned, at least she still had her Wednesday evening dance classes to look forward to.
That Wednesday, after washing the dishes and eating her dinner (at her station, on a stool at the kitchen counter), she changed her clothes and asked for something she thought was quite reasonable, a dime for a return trip on the tram that ran the length of Sherbrooke Street, to where her dance school was located in the east end. She stood before the couple, in her clothes for going out, a small bag containing her dance attire on her shoulder. The man and woman looked at each other, shocked. Finally the woman, stuttering to start off, explained that no, Claire could not leave the house on Wednesday evenings, or ever, really, except for the twelve hours on Easter and on Christmas Day that had been agreed to in the contract.
As
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