Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (7 page)

Rosemary nodded vigorously.

“Now this ....” Edmund set the black book aside and picked up a sheet of rough paper. “This is where you will write down the day’s sales. At the end of the day, I take this and add the numbers to the business ledger. Don’t worry about the book; it will be my duty to fill it out.” He frowned at her. “You
do
know how to work with figures, don’t you?”

Rosemary barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. She smiled and nodded.

“Good!” said Edmund. He handed her a pen and a receipt. “Try it.”

Rosemary bent over the page. She put the pen to paper and dragged it. Nothing came out. She stared at it. “You’re out of ink.”

“There’s the ink bottle.” Edmund pointed to a corner of the desk.

“Ink bottle.” She took a deep breath. “Here goes....”

She dipped the pen and brought it to the page. A line of black drips followed her. She tried to wipe the splotches away, smearing the desk and the sleeve of her dress.

Edmund sucked his breath.

Rosemary got a manageable amount of ink and bent back over the page. She pressed the nib on the line and squawked as a pool of black swept over the numbers.

“Here!” Edmund snatched back the pen. “Perhaps
I
should enter the day’s purchases.”

“All right.” Rosemary bit her lip. “But if you do, you should know that you made a few mistakes.”

Edmund froze. “Mistakes?”

She pointed at four different spots on the page. “You forgot to carry the four, and twelve nines is one hundred and eight, not ninety-six, and here and here you forgot the decimal point.”

Edmund stared at her.

She smiled at him sweetly. “They’re perfectly easy mistakes to make.”

Edmund turned back to the page and recounted, mumbling the numbers and tapping his fingers. He did the numbers again. Then he stood up. He handed over the pen.

“Thanks,” she said. “Do you have a pencil?”

Step one, Peter decided, was getting past the foreman, who was standing watch at the gate.

Peter stepped up and cleared his throat. The foreman’s amber eyes fixed on him and narrowed, but he didn’t order him out. “What do you want?”

Peter swallowed hard. “Excuse me, sir, but would you have any jobs available?”

“What makes you think we would?” said the foreman. “Have we signs asking for hired hands? Did you see us asking for workers from the street gangs?”

Peter suspected that the answer was “no.” “I could be useful,” he ploughed on. “I can keep your books. I know my way around an office. I can read blueprints!” That was a lie, but he figured he could learn quickly.

The foreman turned away. “I’m sure you have plenty to offer, but so do dozens of people not employed here. Look elsewhere.”

“But —”

“I’m sorry, son.” The foreman didn’t meet his eyes. “These are hard times, but there’s nothing I can do.”

He was about to say something more, when two things happened. A horse-drawn cart laden with timbers drew up to the gate, and the old man caught sight of two slouching boys trying to sneak past. He collared them. “You’re late!”

“There was an accident getting here,” said one.

“My pa needed me at home,” said the other. “He’s sick. Very sick.”

“My ma’s sick, too,” the first boy cut in. “On her deathbed, she is!”

“Don’t try that on me,” the foreman growled. “I’ve seen how you work. You’re never around when there are bricks to be unloaded and your shovels prop up your
chins. You were late three times last week!”

Peter looked from this argument to the cart of timbers. He lined up behind the workers grabbing beams and hauled a heavy piece of wood over his shoulder. Turning carefully, he walked past the foreman without staggering.

“Excuse me,” he said as he passed.

“Sorry,” the foreman began, then stopped short. He stared as Peter shouldered the beam to the growing pile of timbers inside the construction site, dropped his load into place, and helped the worker behind him to unload his beam as well.

“You see that?” The foreman turned on the two sullen boys. “That’s the sort of work we like to see here, not your lallygagging! He’s worth what the pair of you cost. He works here now. You don’t!”

“You can’t fire us!” the first boy shouted.

“Yeah! My ma’s at death’s door!” the second added, before catching himself. “I mean, my pa —”

“Enough!” the foreman yelled. “Go away and do whatever it is you do, except don’t expect to be paid for it!”

The two boys started to protest, but thought better of it. Shooting evil glances at Peter, they stomped away.

Peter unloaded his second timber and went back to the foreman. “Thanks. What else do you need?”

The foreman smiled at him. “Can you lay bricks?”

“I can learn.”

“Good! My name’s Tom Proctor. I’ll pair you up with Smith. Mr. ...”

“McAllister,” said Peter after a moment’s hesitation. “Peter McAllister.”

“Well then, Peter McAllister, let’s get your name on our rolls and see what else you can do.”

He stepped back into the construction site. Peter turned to follow, but stopped when he saw the two boys in the distance. They were talking to a third, taller, sneering boy, his nose in a bandage. Peter recognized him: Rob Cameron.

Peter ducked inside before Rob looked up.

Rosemary added water to the stew and chopped in a peeled carrot. With a sigh, she’d settled into stirring when the back door banged open. Faith entered, hauling Peter over the threshold. The young man grimaced in pain.

“Peter!” She rushed over and helped Faith lower him into a chair.

“I found him staggering home,” said Faith, flexing his arm and peering at his red and raw knuckles. “I think he has strained himself.”

“I told you you’d hurt yourself!” Rosemary slapped Peter across the back of the head.

“Ow!” He glared at her. “I’m all right. It wasn’t so bad. I know how to lay bricks now.”

“Raise your arm above your head. I dare you.”

He scowled. “Don’t want to.”

“You have overworked yourself,” said Faith, setting his arm on the table. “A hearty supper and a good night’s sleep and you will be better by morning.”

“See?” said Peter. He pushed himself up. “I can do this. Even if they only pay me ninety cents a day, I can do this.” He fished into his pocket and drew out five coins.

“That is no slave wage,” said Faith. She stowed her books, tied by a leather strap, on a shelf.

“You forgot inflation,” Rosemary whispered into his ear. “I was at the butcher’s this afternoon. That could buy a good cut of meat.” She picked up the coins and slipped them into a pocket in her skirts.

The door opened and Edmund entered, tapping his fingers together and muttering numbers beneath his breath. He brightened when he saw Faith and Peter. “Ah! You’re back. Now we can eat! How was your first day at work?” He clapped Peter on the shoulder. Peter gripped the table and whimpered. Rosemary lowered him back into his chair and massaged his shoulders.

Edmund peered into the bowl of stew, stirring it with the ladle. “Is supper ready?”

Faith slapped his hand away. “Rosemary is in charge of this meal. She will tell us when it’s ready. Is it ready, Rosemary?”

Rosemary waved at the bowls. “The carrots will be hard, but if you don’t want to wait, help yourself.”

They didn’t wait long. After they’d eaten dinner, Faith stayed to help clean up. Peter reached for the dishes to help, and stopped when he saw Edmund and Faith staring at him. He gave Rosemary an apologetic grin, handed her the dish, and darted upstairs.

As Faith set some dried plates on the shelf beside her pile of schoolbooks, she brushed a piece of paper. Seeing it, she frowned. Then she picked it up and held it behind her back. “Edmund?” He was reaching for the door to the front. He turned around. She gazed at the floor and bit her lip. Rosemary looked up from washing the dishes.

Edmund stared at Faith. His eyes narrowed. “Faith?”

“I applied for my additional courses today.”

He sighed. “Show me the bill.”

Faith hesitated, then held out the paper. Edmund took it, took a deep breath, and peered at it. His face went red. “Ten dollars? Is this professor teaching you personally?”

Faith’s eyes turned to the floor.

“Does the university think I’m made of money?” Edmund threw the paper on the table. “How can it cost so much to teach something people already know? How do they expect us to afford this?”

Peter appeared at the stairwell door.

“My sewing —,” Faith began.

“Have you started on your sewing yet?” Edmund shouted. “Have you got your money yet? Maybe you should see your clients and ask for an advance?”

Rosemary flicked suds from her hand. “I’ll help.”

But Edmund was in full rant. “I pay fifty dollars a year for your education. I already put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. How can they expect me to do more?”

Faith bit her lip again.

“I said I’ll help!” Rosemary shouted.

A stunned silence fell. Everybody stared at her.

Rosemary stepped forward, fished in her pocket, and brought out two quarters. “We never talked about rent. We’ve been here two nights. How does a quarter a day sound?” She frowned at Peter’s look. He turned away and slipped quietly upstairs.

“Rosemary,” Faith began. “You already help around the house. We cannot ask for more.”

“Faith is right,” said Edmund. “We can afford this. We’ll afford it, somehow. We cannot take —”

“Take it,” Rosemary snapped. “Or, if you don’t, then don’t argue about money in front of me.”

Edmund and Faith lowered their gazes to the floor. Edmund reached out, hesitated, then plucked the quarters from Rosemary’s palm.

Grunting, Peter hauled a folded screen up the narrow stairs. He juggled it at the door of the apartment so he could twist the knob and kick his way in.

Rosemary, who had been slumped on the bed, leapt up as he entered. “Peter! What did Faith tell you about overstraining yourself?” She grabbed the screen and helped him set it down.

“I know.” He smiled at her. “But you seemed really down and I thought this would cheer you up. Found it in the basement, actually.” He unfolded the screen on stiff hinges and stepped back. “Ta-dah!”

Rosemary pushed her glasses further up on her nose. Before her stood a three-panel screen, with thick canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Asian designs were painted on the canvas. It stood around five feet tall. She looked at Peter.

“A change screen. Thought we could use it,” said Peter. “Especially since Faith finally found some nightclothes for us.” He pulled a bundle from under his arm and tossed it to her.

She caught it and unfurled a one-piece nightgown of white cotton. She grinned. “We don’t have to sleep in our underclothes anymore!”

Peter patted the screen. “And with this baby, I don’t have to stand facing a corner while you change clothes.”

With a whoop, Rosemary darted behind the screen and, before Peter could look away, began undoing buttons and slipping off her overdress. The screen blocked her from the shoulders down, but Peter took two steps back. The top of the screen became draped
with dress and undergarments. Then Rosemary slipped on the nightdress and stepped out into view. “Ta-dah!”