DURING the war years, Emily Carr, like the rest of the world, had trouble trying to get, and keep, good help. It was at this time that her heart was so bad. She was supposed to rest; but it is impossible to rest if things in the home are not going smoothly. When someone stays in bed it does not mean she is resting! A “homebody” is not able to lie and rest if plants need watering, or a budgie needs gravel. And Emily Carr always said sleeping pills did no good if a kitten was crying outside the door.
Every week during the four bad years, I received two or three letters from her, depending on how she was feeling. They were all very interesting; some were funny, and some sad. Some came from her home, and some from the hospital or nursing home, depending on how she was at the time, but they always came. There were a few from her, written for her by her nurse, when she was too ill to do more than dictate.
Every few months they would contain the same little bit: “Ads. in again.” The constant changing was hard on her. The spate of questions, “Where is this?” or “Where is that?” can be very wearing, especially for an active person, suddenly confined, who would find it much easier to get the article than to waste hard-to-get breath in the telling where it was. She dreaded the interviews. Miss Carr had her own names for all the maids, privately that is, and by their names you knew them! Some I remember were, Nimble, Dusty, Muddle, Starchy, Chuckles, and Scorchy (this one was bad!). Some were very good, but the good ones were always being looked up by former employers and offered more money, so they never stayed very long. The poor ones no one wanted. If she wrote me of a new one about to start, who had not yet acquired a nickname, she would then refer to her aprons to describe her; and it is funny how right she generally was in her reading of them. It would be something like this: “Good sensible wrap-around apron type,” or “frilly little pinafore, no use I’m afraid.” She said many times that when they came all dressed up for the interview she wished, instead of letters of reference, they would produce their everyday aprons!
When the resting first started, there was still some hope of keeping a few of the pets. The advertisements stated plainly that lovers of animals only need apply. But some of the maids she got did not know the meaning of the word animal, I am sure! One, for instance, took in the breakfast tray, on the first morning, asking Miss Carr, then, what to do next. She was asked to feed and water the English doves, which were kept in a glassed-in end of the veranda. That was that. More than an hour went by. Not a sound was to be heard from the veranda. The phone rang, and continued to ring. Finally, Miss Carr could stand it no longer. In spite of all the doctor’s warnings, she got up, put a blanket around herself, and made her way to the veranda. Imagine her amazement, anger, and disgust, to find, huddled down in the corner of the doves’ cage, this “fond of animals” new maid! She had entered with the food, the doves, glad to get it, had “cooed” as doves do, and she was then too scared to walk out! I am surprised Miss Carr did not leave her there. I never did hear how she got back to bed!
Some of her letters to me, written while Pussy-Foot was with her, were really funny. They would be going along neatly, and suddenly across the page there would be a great slithery line or, at times, a big blot. That would be when Pussy-Foot appeared, suddenly, at her elbow. She moved about without a sound of any kind. Always Miss Carr was very punctual. Once a routine was established, and proved satisfactory, that was the pattern that was followed. The day, at Miss Carr’s, started early; fires were lit at the same time every morning. She was awake herself, so naturally, being bedridden, sounds were very important to her. After she had moved from her big home, into her sister’s flat, the kitchen was next to her bedroom. It was quite natural, when seven o’clock came, to listen for the stove’s clatter, the clamour of the pots. There would be no sound. By the time she was quite on edge, the adjoining door would open soundlessly and the coffee smells would announce breakfast, all ready to be served. Funny though it seems now, it could be very annoying. Miss Carr had, on occasion, had specimens of the noisy, dish-breaking variety, which had caused (and received) their share of grumbles, but Pussy-Foot cured her of the very quiet ones!
“There is no accounting for humour,” Miss Carr said to me one afternoon when I asked her to tell me of some of the funny things that had happened. Some of the little stories escape me till something happens to remind me. One I remember clearly.
Rent Rant was her name for this one; if it reminds you of something, I think it is supposed to! She had been with Miss Carr only a week or so when this incident took place. Miss Carr had been a little better, and able to sit up for a while in the afternoons, in her studio where she had been working hard on a special picture of an Indian image, in which the one eye was enlarged and impressive, the other ignored completely, as the Indians are wont to do. She had been anxious to get it done for some time, and was so pleased one day, as she stepped back into bed, exhausted but happy, that it was finished to her satisfaction. Relaxed, she slept a little while, and awoke to find her “helper” of the moment, holding the picture up before her, with two eyes! “There, ‘e can rest now, Ma’am, I’ve done it for ya.” She certainly had! There was the picture, complete with a second eye, the wildest looking eye, quite yellow, but as the woman said, there were so many colours used in the picture already that she did not think it mattered much which she used, and it was, she said, a very “purty yallow!” Poor Miss Carr, she was quite speechless—with gratitude, this woman thought! “Oh, it’s all right, now don’t be thankin’ me, it’s the first time I’ve done, I daresay it’ll be the last, but it’s lots of chairs I’ve done in me time.” Remember now her name, Rent Rant!
Mom told me long after that she had had doubts, right from the start, about this helper; engaging her had been, she said, like delving into a book that has no cover. She wore no apron!
In the old days, when Miss Carr was well and strong, the aprons we loved best were the big red oil-cloth ones (made from the old kitchen table covers), which we wore when washing the dogs, or weathering the clay. As both these jobs were done, or started, down in the garden, I was especially fond of them. The dog washing was at times very funny. We never washed the monkey; she kept her own little body clean, and heaven help any unlucky little flea, if he should happen to jump from one of the dogs to her furry little back! But Woo had a lot to do with the bathing of the dogs. Miss Carr had a bottle of liquid soap that came from the veterinary for the express purpose of washing dogs. So, anything at all that came in a bottle, in any room of our house, or from the open window sill of any neighbours, was in jeopardy; but only on the day the dogs were being washed. Woo never seemed to pay the least attention to a bottle, but when the job was started, she always knew exactly where a bottle was. As sure as we became engrossed with our task (and with from twenty to thirty dogs to do, it was easy!), the little monkey would slip off her collar and be away in a flash, in search of the bottle she had in mind. She would try the cork, or screw top, before carrying it back, making sure it would undo for her, then she would do it up again, slip back practically unnoticed, and before you could blink an eye, into the sudsey water along with the dog, would go, maybe a bottle of ink, or ketchup, turpentine, once even part of a bottle of good wine! And she would reach over the edge of the tub and slap their wet little bodies, her eyes screwed up tight! She never did this unless they were soaking wet, then it made resounding little smacks, that really did not hurt them in any way, but which did infuriate them! She would sneak up as close as she dared when they were taken from the water. She had all manner of tricks up her hairy little arm. If the dog gave itself a shake, in time to splatter her, she nearly had a fit!
Yes, there were a lot of different aprons, for all sorts of jobs, but it was the big rubbery wrap-around, tie-on-tight ones that we loved the best.