The Stockwood house was quiet again, but in the weeks after Rodney’s departure, Aggie discovered that she was at least part of the household now. Mrs. Bradley and the Stockwoods had accepted her completely and the ache of homesickness that had coloured everything last winter was much easier to bear. Still, Rodney and Rose were the only real friends she’d made, and once again Aggie was alone. Emma offered more Sunday outings with Stuart, but these invitations were half-hearted. Aggie was glad that Emma accepted her refusals so readily.
But being alone was different now. Over the summer, Aggie had come to feel at home in Toronto without even noticing. She especially liked Toronto Island, in spite of the afternoon she’d spent there with Bobby, or perhaps because of it. And, with summer gone, the island was peaceful. In September and early October, Aggie often spent her half days alone on Centre Island. Sometimes she would sit in the autumn sunshine writing letters home. Sometimes she just walked across the empty picnic grounds, kicking the fallen yellow leaves. She was so lost in the beauty of these afternoons that she never noticed the tall, black-haired young man who sometimes watched her, but never tried to approach.
When it grew too cold to visit the island, Aggie began to explore the city. She quickly realized there were parts of Toronto she knew nothing about—parts that didn’t seem to exist for people like Rodney and Rose. One day, just as the first snow was falling, Aggie found herself on a streetcar travelling down Spadina Avenue. Solid stone mansions gave way to a jumble of small shops that spilled their wares out onto the street in wild confusion. Many shops had signs in heavy black letters that looked nothing like the alphabet; yet Aggie recognized them from somewhere. Finally she realized that single letters in this script were printed above some of the psalms in her Bible. Aggie remembered Mr. Sheff, the tailor who loaned her mother money. This neighbourhood must be Jewish. On an impulse, Aggie got off at the next stop. Stepping from the streetcar, she almost felt as she if she was getting off the ship from Scotland again.
Aggie found herself in a market full of small shops.
People spoke to one another in a language she didn’t understand. It was strange, but not frightening. Everyone was busy, lively, interested in what they were doing.
A shopkeeper spoke to Aggie as she passed, pointing to his wares. “You need umbrella, miss? Fine umbrella for rain? Just twenty-five cents.”
When Aggie smiled and shook her head, the man shrugged and smiled back.
A sudden crash made Aggie turn around. A truck had skidded on the new snow, veering onto the curb and into some crates of live chickens outside a small poultry shop. Some of the crates tipped and broke open. Chickens flew in all directions. A tiny old woman from the poultry shop hurled herself at the truck driver, shouting. The truck driver, who seemed at least twice her size, stared down at the small, furious woman as if he didn’t quite believe this was happening. Meanwhile, the chickens made a break for the open.’ One ran straight towards Aggie on nimble, yellow legs.
Aggie had never been interested in her father’s pigeons, but she knew something about birds. Everyone in her family did. Now she deftly grabbed the chicken and tucked it firmly under her arm. The bird seemed to sense it was in the hands of someone who knew what she was doing. It jerked its head about and blinked, but did not struggle. By now, a large crowd of bystanders had collected. A few cheered when Aggie caught the chicken. Feeling more than a little silly, she made her way through the crowd to the poultry shop.
While the old shopkeeper continued her tirade, another woman had taken over, setting the wooden crates upright, putting things back into order. A policeman arrived. The angry shopkeeper went to him, and so did the truck driver, who still had not spoken a word.
The other woman turned to Aggie and gave her and the chicken a careful, appraising glance. “You must be farm-girl,” she said, “to catch chicken so fast, and honest too. Most of those chickens Mindl will never see again.” She glanced towards the little shopkeeper, who was finally growing calmer in the shadow of the policeman.
“No, not a farm-girl,” Aggie said, “but my father keeps pigeons.”
The woman opened an undamaged crate and helped Aggie settle the flapping chicken inside. “In Canada, your father keeps these pigeons?”
Aggie shook her head. “In Scotland.” She helped the woman stack the crate with some others. Aggie had assumed that this woman must work at the poultry shop, or at some other shop nearby, but when the chickens were settled, she picked up a shopping basket.
“Why you come to Canada, honest pigeon girl?” she asked.
Her English was actually better than that—Aggie could see she was joking. She was about sixty, her grey hair covered by a scarf. Her English was a bit rough, but her pale blue eyes were full of humour. Aggie found herself explaining why she had come to Canada.
The woman gave her another steady look. “English is the language you have always spoken, yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” Aggie said, “Scots, but English.”
“Good enough. My name is Hannah,” the woman said.
“I am servant, like you. Housekeeper for a family. They live not far.” She waved over towards Spadina, the direction Aggie had come from. “This family are needing young woman to teach English. No one will come. No young woman from university, not from teacher’s college either. I think maybe they are afraid of Jews.” She looked at Aggie sharply. “Are you afraid of Jews?”
“No. Of course not.” Aggie said, surprised by the idea. The woman named Hannah laughed. “I believe you. The wife of the man I work for is needing help. He will pay you well to speak English with her. You will come with me to meet them?”
Aggie considered. She could wander around alone as she had for weeks on her half days, or she could follow Hannah on what sounded like an adventure. She wasn’t sure she could teach anyone. But she knew that her refusal could be taken to mean that she, too, was unwilling to help these people because they were Jewish.
“Yes, I will come,” she said. Aggie had never done anything like this before. But she was sure she would be safe with Hannah.
Aggie felt a little shiver of excitement as she followed Hannah out of the market. The neighbourhood on the other side of Spadina was certainly not Deer Park. The crowded houses had tiny front yards, but most of them looked well cared for. Soon they came to Beverley Street and Hannah turned to a large brick house with a sloping roof and a big front porch, a better looking house than most they’d passed. She took Aggie to the side entrance.
Inside the spotless kitchen, Hannah waved Aggie into a chair. “Sit. I will telephone my employer. His business is not far from here. Five minutes and he can be home.” She left the room.
Aggie looked around. The icebox was not as modern as the electric refrigerator in the Stockwood kitchen. Still, these people were probably well-to-do. Aggie realized that she couldn’t measure this place against the Stockwood household. The Stockwoods were simply rich.
Hannah returned as abruptly as she had left. “Five minutes,” she said. “You like tea?” Aggie nodded. “Good. I make tea.” She set a tall glass in a little metal holder before Aggie, then busied herself at the stove. “I work for Moshe Mendorfsky,” she said. “Moshe is a good boy. Since he was little I am looking after this house. My husband worked for Moshe’s father many years. After my Jacob dies, I come here to keep house. Now, Moshe’s parents also are dead. Mendorfsky’s is furrier. You see ads in paper?” she asked. Aggie shook her head.
“Ads are in paper. This is quality shop, making finest fur coats in Toronto. This is inside shop. No piecework stitched by starving women and children. Craftsmen work there. They belong to union, take home good wages.”
Hannah spoke with such intensity that Aggie didn’t know how to reply, so she waited quietly for her tea. Hannah poured it into the glass when it was ready. There was no milk in sight. Aggie heard the front door open, then she heard voices at the front of the house. A few minutes later, a man came into the kitchen. Aggie began to stand, but he indicated that she should stay seated. From the grey beginning in his hair, Aggie guessed he was about forty. He was tall and thin, clean-shaven with clear brown eyes.
“Here is Agnes Maxwell, English maid,” Hannah said.
“Agnes, here is Reb Moshe Mendorfsky.”
“Hannah, I won’t even try to guess how you found this young woman,” Moshe said. His voice was gentle, and he spoke clear Canadian English with only a trace of an accent. He turned to Aggie. “Would you excuse us for a moment, please?”
“Yes sir,” Aggie said.
They went into the hall outside the kitchen. From where she sat, Aggie could hear a quiet, heated conversation in a language she did not understand. She only knew that Mr. Mendorfsky was asking questions, and Hannah seemed to be insisting on something. After a few minutes, they returned to the kitchen.
“Hannah says you are a domestic?”
“Yes sir, I work in a house in Deer Park.”
“Deer Park. Some of our customers live there. You have how many half days off?”
“Just two sir. Today and Sunday afternoon.”
Moshe nodded. “My wife Rachel came from Russia less than a year ago. She speaks little English. I have looked for a young woman to help her, a native English speaker. I imagine Hannah told you how difficult we’ve found that.” He gave a wry smile.
“Sir,” Aggie said, “I’m not sure I’d be the best person to teach English . . .”
Moshe waved her protest aside. “Hannah feels it will be good for Rachel to have someone to talk to, and I must agree. Do what you can to help with her English. I will pay you five dollars a month to come here on your half days, to make conversation with Rachel. Is this agreeable to you?”
Five dollars was a great deal of money. Aggie could not refuse.
“You do not mind working on your half days?” Moshe asked.
“My family is still in Scotland, sir. All my extra money goes home until they can come to Canada.”
Moshe smiled. “Many Jews do the same thing. I can see we will get along. Could you start now, today?”
“Well . . . yes, I suppose I could.”
“Excellent. Now you will meet Rachel.”
Moshe led her to the front parlour. They passed a small room whose walls were completely lined with books. In the parlour, Aggie was startled to find a beautiful, sad-eyed girl who looked no older than Aggie herself.
“This,” said Moshe, “is my wife Rachel.”