January 21, 1895
"Just - a little - further -"
The weight was straining Anne's arms to their maximum capacity.
"Almost there..."
Finally, they reached the desk, and release the case onto it with a loud thunk.
"This better be worth it," panted Davy, shaking out his hands.
Anne caressed the shiny black case reverently, smiling as she caught her breath. "Oh, it will be. Are you ready to see?"
"Just open it, already." Anne rolled her eyes at his faked disinterest - she knew Davy was dying of curiosity.
"Steel yourself," she warned, unbuckling the latches. The lid flapped open, and she gestured theatrically. "Behold!"
Davy blinked. He frowned, took a step closer to bring his face level with the contraption. To him, it looked like a millipede, its metal legs all in organized rows, the padded feet sticking up in the air. "What is it?"
"The solution to all our troubles, Davy-boy. This will save Green Gables!"
His frown deepened. "I don't get it."
"Allow me to demonstrate." Anne pulled a sheet of paper from the case's side compartment, and fed it into the machine. Crouching to better see what she was doing (and making a mental note to bring a chair in here), she positioned her fingers over the buttons and pressed. The metallic stems emitted a series of clacks against the scroll at the top. Anne freed the paper from the noisy beast and handed it to her spectator with a flourish.
He frowned at the sheet. Brought it up to his nose, held it up to the light. Not the reaction Anne had anticipated: she took the paper from him and frowned in turn.
"Nothing," she muttered, bending over to check the mechanisms.
"This is what you took a three day detour for? A broken typewriting machine?"
"The ink band must have dried up," Anne touched the black ribbon, ignoring Davy's dismay.
"How is this supposed to save the farm?" he pointed at the faulty machine, dumbstruck, his jaw slack.
"You're working the farm. I'm just making sure the land stays ours, by keeping our finances steady. From now on, this will be our income!"
"Fine. This is fine," Davy paced about the room, trying to suppress the mild panic clawing its way up his throat. "The cabbage is coming in alright, and so are the turnips. If we bring in some of the eggs, I can make a little extra at market. And you said you still had a little left over from the post office, right?"
"Most of it went toward the machine, I spent the rest on the train fare." Anne looked up at his horrified expression and laid a tender hand on his blanched face. "There's no need to worry, Davy-boy. Have faith."
February 3, 1895
Prince Albert, SK
Dear A. B. Shirley,
Well, now I know the reason for the detour to Toronto on your way home. A worthy investment indeed - an improvement, at the very least: your handwritten lines do tend to go crooked on the page, reading your letters was giving me a crick in the neck. I'm assuming this will help you submit your manuscripts in a more professional format?
Thank you for your visit. I appreciate your coming all the way out here, and I'm sorry I haven't been able to reciprocate the gesture. I would have jumped on a train myself after that farewell letter of yours (to talk some sense into you, or throttle you), but as you can see, I barely get an entire night off work. Things ought to be slowing down come spring, the director promised us some new hires. In the meanwhile, it's double shifts and no sleep for all of us at the hospital.
Speaking of which, Kate has asked me to convey her best regards as well as salutations from Marge and Beth, and to say that you are always welcome at their house. Those are my own words: hers were much less formal (something about abducting you for more biscuits?), so I took the liberty of rephrasing.
Thank you for the Longfellow poem. It was inspirational, really - anyone bold enough to publish something called 'Seaweed' ought to get recognition for bravery alone, though I'm afraid all that 'drifting' and 'shifting' made me feel queasy.* If you ask me, it lacked both in plot and characters. Take my latest composition, for a good example:
There once was a lady from Maine
Who'd met a nice lad on the train:
They made quite the couple,
Though she wasn't so supple
And sustained a most painful sprain.**
I'd write more, but I really must get some sleep. Take care, and keep on typing!
Your friend,
Doug
February 16, 1895
Anne was vaguely aware of her name being called. Dazed, she turned around to see Davy, glaring at her in his nightshirt. His lips were moving, but his voice sounded as though it was coming from underwater. It wasn't until he gestured at the side of her head that Anne remembered the cotton balls stuffed in her ears: she promptly removed them. "What? What's wrong, Davy?"
"What's wrong? Anne, it's late! Will you stop, already?"
"It's not that late, it's only..." A glance out the door to the grandfather clock in the hallway corrected her. "Oh, it is late. Sorry."
"The noise is bad enough during the day, but you've got to give it a rest at night!"
"Are you out of cotton balls? Here, take some of mine-"
"I can't sleep with those, they make my ears hurt." He rubbed his face and yawned. "Come on, Anne. You might not need any, but let a fellow get some rest, won't you?"
"Fine," she sighed. "I wasn't getting anywhere, anyway."
The bleary-eyed man of the house returned to bed grumbling, and Anne closed up the office for the night. She'd converted Matthew's old room into her workspace, inconveniently situated right below Davy's room. Using the smallest furnished room of the house had made sense at the time: that was before realizing how loud the machine could be. Davy had taken to stuffing his ears against the clanging of metal, and Anne had been quick to follow suit.
That was only one of the problems. Typing was hard: the keys required a certain amount of force to work, and the repeated gesture was starting to make her wrists ache. What more, finding the right keys to press was a headache in itself: who in their right mind had arranged the letters in such disorder? To have the alphabet so carelessly spilled and randomly put back together meant that Anne had to lean over to glare at the inscriptions. She'd even taken to practicing silently, floating her fingertips on the keypads as lightly as one might tinkle the ivories of a piano: an exercise that left her feeling ridiculous, and didn't seem to improve her technique by much.
To make matters worse, business wasn't catching as fast as she hoped. Mr. Rowan had been gentle in his refusal of her services, on the grounds that keeping their records by hand was just fine. He'd assured her that if she was in need, he could surely rustle up something for her to do in the sorting room, but Anne didn't want his hours now: not when she needed her investment to pay off.
All the other business owners in Avonlea were of the same mind as the post master. They'd always written everything up by hand, why would they change now? People didn't even file that much paperwork in these parts, anyway. Leave those infernal machines in the city where they belonged: lazy shortcuts, they were, and what was so wrong with good old fashioned ink pens?
It didn't matter how many times Anne tried to explain the difference between a typewriting device and a printing press, or how fervently she demonstrated the convenience of the former, or how low she bent her fares: in the end, the only person who gave her the time of day was Miss Nilson at the general store.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done there: she'd breezed through inventory, converted some receipts and orders... and that was it. Four cents per sheet was as high a fee as she dared to ask, and still she barely made a pittance, what with the cost of paper...
Still, Anne kept her head high: she would keep on trying. In the meanwhile, she had her own typing to do, having only converted two of her fifteen existing chapters to neat print. She hoped that eventually, the town would come to its senses, and that by that time, her fingers would be more adept to the task than they were now.
February 21, 1895
Prince Albert, SK
You are a most cruel woman, getting my hopes up!
By the thickness of your latest missive, I'd imagined receiving an A. B. Shirley original. Instead, I discover that not only have you retired the typewriting device, but you're now using your own pen (Excalibur has been extracted from its stone again, I see!) to copy another's work. What kind of author are you, anyway?
Well, your Tennyson has more merit than the last 'Fellow, I'll give you that. But a merman, really? Fine dream - for someone six years of age, perhaps. Poor bloke, it sounds as though he's never know the touch of anyone but himself. Unlike the Lady who came from Madras, whose lover's hands were made of glass.*** I haven't the time to pen the whole thing, but I'll leave you to guess where said lover broke his fingers.
I'm afraid we've just received some less than pleasing news here: hospital direction is putting a pause on the hiring search indefinitely, claiming that budget won't allow for it at the moment. I think they find it rather convenient to have us all on overtime, though we won't be able to sustain this rhythm much longer. Someone's bound to drop from exhaustion, sooner or later. If it's me, I hope the director throws out his back trying to pick me up from the floor.
Thank you for keeping me up to date with the situation in Avonlea. I hope this scheme of yours works out. If not, Kate says that you can come to Saskatchewan and move in with her to be her muffin slave - is that code for something? She refused to clarify. Either way, you have options here, too.
Your friend,
Doug
March 1, 1895
Anne held two papers in her hands. One listed the total of her earnings for the month of February.
Feb. 2: MRS. NILSON 4 pages (BUS. - general store) - 16 cts
Feb. 9: MRS. NILSON 6 pages (BUS. - general store) - 24 cts
Feb. 13: MR. BARRY 1 page (PERS. - letter) - 3 cts
Feb. 16: MRS. NILSON 5 pages (BUS. - general store) - 20 cts -2cts discount - 18 cts
Feb. 22: MRS. BELL 1 page (PERS. - letter) - 3 cts
Feb. 23: MRS. NILSON 7 pages (BUS. - general store) - 28 cts -3 cts discount - 25 cts
Feb. 1895 total: 89 cts
The other was the grocer's bill, with an amount that was painful to read (as it largely surpassed eighty-nine cents).
Look on the bright side, Carrots! You might be able to sell that machine of yours for a pretty penny.I'm not saying it was a silly purchase, but...
Anne plopped on her bed and set the papers down. If business didn't pick up soon, she would be forced to do something drastic.
March 14, 1895
Prince Albert, SK
Why, Shirley, I never knew you cared!
While it's certainly very sweet of you to worry over me, it is also unnecessary. I'm well-practiced by now in the art of staying awake for long periods of time, and easily go twenty-four hours without sleep. One time during our first year, Gil and I made it past thirty consecutive hours awake: by the time we'd seen the sun rise twice, we were so loopy we could barely stand. Our shift supervisor found us giggling hysterically upstairs in the physical rehabilitation center, abusing the equipment. Punishment ensued, and we learned the value of a good nap that day.
Yes, of COURSE I'd heard of Tennyson before. And Longfellow, and Browning, too. I am confused by your choice of verse, though: are you calling me an angel, an eagle, or a merest man?**** I prefer more literal poetry myself, such as The young man from Oslo, whose wife was rather shallow. I'll spare you the plot complications - in the end, he makes clever use of his toe.*****
I'm very glad Mrs. Blythe's health is improving. A cold is nothing much to worry about, but I understand your concern under the circumstances. Make sure she gets rest, drinks plenty of fluids. And do try to get the doctor's notes for me, if it isn't too much trouble. Thank you for looking after her as I cannot.
Take care, Anne. Stay sound and healthy, and keep me closely posted.
Your friend,
Doug
April 1, 1895
Diana looked from the papers to Anne, and then back down to the papers.
"Anne, this is... what is it?"
"I itemized my income - this is all from the past month."
"Oh. I see." She frowned. "Four cents a page? That sounds awfully expensive."
"Only if it's a business document. Three cents for personal documents, such as letters."
"I see father's been employing your services quite a bit recently."
"Oh, he's done better than that - he's convinced his two of his friends to start typing their letters, too. I've tried to offer him a discount, but he wouldn't hear of it."
Diana's lips pursed into a terse smile as she handed the papers back. "I'm very glad your finances are on the incline."
"It doesn't bother you that I'm in business with your family, does it? If so, I'll stop right away."
She shook her raven head. "No, it's fine. I might find something for you to type as well - it'll give you an excuse to talk to me more than once a week."
"Di, what is it?"
"Oh, nothing."
Anne stood before her friend, planting her feet firmly in the ground. "Speak to me, Diana Wright née Barry!"
Her round face took an uncharacteristic hard front. "It's this obsession with your machine. To be honest, it sounds like a crackpot scheme. I know, I know it's working now, but... this leaving twice, on a whim, disappearing halfway across the country - and now, it's as if you're lost in this fantasy of yours, where you suddenly make a fortune with a - a typing gizmo, and then what? You'll jump on another ferry, to New York, or - I don't know... London, or India, and write of your exciting adventures there?"
Anne clearly heard what she wasn't saying. "Diana, my love." She grabbed her friend's hands. "I was only visiting Prince Albert. I had no intentions to stay, I only had to take care of a, er, somewhat pressing matter."
"I used to matter, too." The tear that rolled down Diana's full rosy cheek broke Anne's heart.
"You matter the most," she confirmed, brushing it away with her thumb. "My life is here. My heart is here. Everyone I love is here, and you're at the very top of that list."
Diana's lips moved tremulously: whether to form a smile or a frown, it was unclear. "We're thirty years old, Anne. Don't you ever worry about what happens after? When we lose our health, our minds..."
"Dear, have you been having nightmares again?" asked Anne, reaching underneath the black bangs to caress the peach colored forehead. "You're being morbid."
"But that doesn't mean it won't happen." Diana caught the pale hand and pressed it in her own. "We will get old, God willing. And when I do, I will have Small Anne and Freddie to look after me."
"Not Fred?" Anne raised a teasing eyebrow, only to receive the patent unamused stare that seemed to be acquired automatically with motherhood.
"Fred is two years older than me."
"Than I."
"The point is, I'll have my children to look after me. By that time, they might even have children of their own. Who will care for you, Anne? Mrs. Blythe isn't going to be around forever. And Davy will be moving back to Gaspereaux after the harvest this year: by the sounds of it, he won't be eager to come back."
Red eyebrows raised to the red hairline. "He said that? Did Fred tell you?"
"Davy told him that if the finances stayed as they are, there wouldn't be enough for the both of you to live off. He's worried about you. They're men, Anne!" Diana shook her head before she could interrupt. "You can't blame them for being practical."
Anne seethed silently for a moment, her nostrils flared with heavy bovine breaths. She counted to ten and unclenched her teeth, gazing into the soulful black eyes.
"While I can appreciate their concern, I have things under control. No, let me speak now: I know this idea was risky, but it's working. The drugstore just asked me to convert all their records, as well as any paperwork they'll incur in the future. And Mr. Lawson is considering having most of his documents typed from now on. He hasn't confirmed yet, and I wanted to wait to tell you, but just imagine, Di: even with a discount, I'd earn more than triple what I made last month!"
"Won't that be an awful lot of typing?" asked Diana skeptically, carefully reining in any enthusiasm.
"That's the point, isn't it? I know it sounds crazy, but..." Anne sighed. "I needed to do this. Something for me: to support myself, and Davy. I summoned him here, and so it's my responsibility to make sure we have a roof over our heads, and food on the table. And Di, I like being able to earn my own way, not to have to rely on anyone."
Diana smiled sadly, her tone wistful as she said: "I still hope you might enjoy relying on someone, some day."
A fist of pain squeezed at Anne's heart. "There was only one person in the world who might have held that position."
Tears had already started leaking. "Gilbert wouldn't want you to be alone for the rest of your life."
"I know."
Diana pressed her dark brow to her pale one, absorbing her friend's misery. Anne let herself be comforted for a while, then straightened up with a resolute sniff.
"That's just how it is now, Di. I began my life alone, I'm not afraid to finish it that way." Especially since she wasn't truly alone, but there was no way she could explain that: not without sounding utterly insane. "For now, let us be young, and look to the nearer future - I need your help with something important."
Glee illuminated Diana's face then, and Anne smiled teasingly.
"Come on, Di: we've got the wedding of a century to plan!"
*H. W. Longfellow, Seaweed
**Sorry, this was the best I could manage with a T rating.
***Another mavors4986 original
****Robert Browning, Man I am and man would be
*****Yet another one of my creations. I'm obviously not a poet...
Thank you all for reading, and especially for reviewing! Your remarks are becoming far too pertinent and clever, so I've responded to the last round of reviews via PM. I truly appreciate your criticism and support, thank you all so much!