Chapter 10: Serendipity
Riza's morning always started at seven o'clock, when she awakened to the noise of the children chasing after the bread truck that rumbled through on its way across the river. She could hear their gleeful chanting: "Baileys' bread is full of lead! The more you eat, the quicker you're dead!"
Riza dressed as quickly as she could, taking care to orient her stockings so that the holes rested on the side of her foot, where her toes could not poke through. Then she ate her breakfast: today a hunk of stale bread with a wedge of sharp cheese that Mr. Mustang had brought her last night. She took another piece of bread, a slice of bacon and two glossy green apples, and knotted them into a handkerchief. That would be her dinner. She also had a paper cone full of raisins and almonds on which to nibble as she walked to work, for now that he was helping in the Academy kitchens, Mr. Mustang was able to procure such treats for her.
When she was ready, Riza put on her beautiful new coat and descended into the street. As always, Mrs. Leung was watching from her sitting room window. She nodded at Riza, who wiggled her fingers in response. It was nice to know that somebody cared about her, even if it was only her landlady.
At this hour the streets were still quiet, and the sky still grey with early sunlight. Riza walked hastily through the streets, not wanting to pause lest she should draw attention to herself. When she reached the bottom of the bridge she realized that she was later than usual, for Carlie was already there, waiting for her.
Carlie worked on the lilies line at the factory. She and Riza were not really friends, but they met at the bridge and walked to work together every morning, and at night they walked back together, as far of the bridge. Carlie was seventeen, the same age as Mr. Mustang. She was tall and thin, and always wore twice-turned frocks with gorgeous tatted lace collars, which she made herself. Carlie had a beau who was in the military. He was a sergeant, and he was serving on the western front. When he accumulated enough seniority to put in for reassignment to a desk job, they were going to be married. Until then, Carlie was working so that she could save up enough money to help them set up a home together.
Wordlessly, Riza fell into step beside the older girl. Carlie was very talkative in the evenings, but silent as a statue in the mornings. This was because she hated to get up early. Riza opened the paper cone and offered it to her companion. Carlie took a few of the plump raisins, muttering a hoarse word of thanks.
"I had a letter," she said after a couple of blocks had passed. "From George." George was her betrothed. "Sounds like things are quieting down. Maybe he'll be able to come home soon."
"I hope so," Riza fibbed. She didn't really hope so. Really, she hoped that Carlie would always be around to walk with her. In the morning it wasn't so bad, but on the long walk home through dark streets, Riza was glad to have someone with her. She only wished that Carlie lived nearer to her tenement.
"I hope he doesn't go and get himself killed," Carlie said. "It'd be just like him to spoil it all!"
Riza said nothing. She could hear Mr. Mustang saying, in this profession you never know when you might wind up dead in a ditch somewhere, like a piece of trash. The thought made her shiver. She understood that soldiers must suffer and die so that the common people could live in peace, but she didn't want Mr. Mustang to be one of those soldiers. He was meant to be one of the great heroes of Amestris, a demigod of war who safeguarded the land with the power of his hands, who triumphed over the nameless foes, and won great renown. She knew that this was a silly, idealistic way of thinking, but she was also aware that it sprung from a deep-rooted terror that he might, indeed, be killed one day.
The rest of the walk passed in silence, each girl brooding upon the dangers their men faced in their chosen line of work. At last, they reached the doors of the little grey factory. The other girls were clustered around the coat-hooks, braiding one another's hair and whipstitching one another's shoulder seams closed and gossiping light-heartedly. Carlie fell into the group at once, but as always Riza was on the outside. She had so little in common with these girls. They were cosmopolitan creatures, not one of whom had finished the Third Reader in school. They had grown up in the bustling, sociable atmosphere of an overcrowded city and they thrived on one another's company. They had read none of the books Riza loved, nor heard of the historical figures she admired, nor had any ambition beyond their dreams of men and families. Quiet, rurally bred Riza, who had lived for months at a time speaking to no one but her father – and only then when he asked – had no place in their world.
At eight o'clock the bell sounded, and the girls filed into the main workroom, taking their places in the assembly lines. Then it was twist, twist, twist the ribbons until eleven o'clock break, which was five minutes during which the girls could use the lavatory or have a drink of water. Then twist, twist, twist until the fifteen-minute dinner break at two o'clock. There was always more gossip and more laughing, and Riza always sat out on the fringe of the group. Then back to work and twist, twist, twist until six, when the day was done. The girls had to sign their timesheet to confirm that they had been at work that day, as if any would dare to miss a day's labour. Then they could go home.
Riza and Carlie walked together, Carlie talking about the colour that she wanted for her curtains when she had her little home with George. Riza tried to imagine such a life for herself: settling down in a neat little house or an apartment, with a loving husband who came home every day in a smoky blue uniform. The image didn't work. For one thing, she hated the thought of staying sequestered in the house, with nothing but her chores to fill her day. She had had such a life during the last years before her father's death, and she never wanted to suffer that purgatory again. Carlie's fantasy had another defect for Riza: she had no beau. When she tried to imagine a husband, it was Mr. Mustang who materialized in her mind's eye – and of course, that was absurd.
When they parted ways at the bridge, Riza watched Carlie's retreating form until she could no longer see it. Then, all too cognizant of the fact that she was alone, she hurried home as quickly as she could. She had no desire to repeat her experience with the drunkard.
When she reached the building, Mrs. Leung was there, watching from behind her parlour door. Riza smiled at her, and trudged up the stairs to her little room under the eaves. She undressed and put on her father's old shirt. Then she ate a little and lay down to sleep, so that she would be fresh and awake when Mr. Mustang came.
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"Baileys' bread is full of lead! The more you eat, the quicker you're dead!"
Riza moaned softly. Time to get up. She rolled onto her back, startled to see her chest still covered with her father's shirt. But of course she had no reason to remove it, for Mr. Mustang no longer wanted to look at her back. Yet still he came to see her, though of course his visits were shorter now. Riza didn't care about that. She was just so grateful that he came at all, and though she knew he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart there was a part of her that almost dared to hope that he enjoyed the time that they spent together. She remembered Roy, the boy she had known, who had valued her as a person. Perhaps Mr. Mustang was starting to remember those days, too.
Then she realized that she had slept through the night. He hadn't come tonight. Doubt flooded back. Had he decided that she wasn't worth the effort after all?
She sat up, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. He hadn't come. She wanted to roll back into bed, but she couldn't. She had to get ready for work. Riza shifted her weight forward onto her perpetually-aching feet and stood. Then her eyes fell on the table. There stood a loaf of bread, a wedge of pound cake, an apple and an orange and a bright yellow pepper – none of which had been there the night before. There was a note next to the bread, and Riza picked it up. As she read it, a small smile crept onto her face.
You looked so peaceful while you were sleeping, the familiar handwriting spelled out. I didn't want to wake you. I hope you don't mind. See you tomorrow! Roy.
Now, there could be no doubt that he cared about her – not only about her back or even her needs, but about her feelings as well. Riza stared at the paper for a long while... but it was time to get ready to go to work. She had to get dressed.
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The warm weather came, and the walk to the factory grew brighter and more pleasant. There were flowers in the windowboxes now, and yellow dandelions like golden starbursts poking their tenacious yellow heads up through the pavement. There was enough money for Riza to live on, and Mr. Mustang told her that he was even able to put aside a little each month. He was saving his money so that he could sit the State Alchemist exam once he perfected her father's technique.
With the troubles of the last months finally resolved, and some level of security achieved at last, it was perhaps inevitable that something would go wrong. On the last day of April, something did. Riza was let go from the factory.
The call for artificial flowers was a seasonal one. They were needed in the winter, when even the hothouses in South City could not produce enough blossoms to meet the demands of weddings, funerals and debutant balls. Silk flowers were a staple of the trade from November until May, when the real thing was once more readily and cheaply available. Then demand flagged, and the workers who produced the flimsy vanities were no longer needed.
The announcement seemed to come as no shock to the other girls. They merely shrugged their shoulders and took their last week's pay, and left. Riza lingered behind, clutching her precious eighty-five sens, and trying to work up the courage to speak.
"What is it?" Mr. Baxter asked at last, looking up from the ledger. "You've got your wages: go home."
"B-but sir," Riza stammered. "I can't – I need this job."
"What job?" he grunted. "There's no work for you here."
"But you didn't give me any notice," she protested. "I haven't had a chance to find more work. I need the money, sir."
"That's not my problem, girlie. You knew when you took the job that it was a seasonal thing: don't come crying to me now!
Riza was about to protest that she hadn't known, that no one had said anything of the kind, but the man got up from his seat and crossed towards the warehouse door. She followed him.
"Isn't there something else I could do?" she begged. "I can clean and I can cook. I have my school diploma, and—"
He turned around and looked her over, then cackled meanly. "You have your school diploma? Girlie, I've been in this line of work for fifteen years and you can't lie to me. All you little skirts are the same: primary school dropouts who'll never be good for anything but simple manual work and popping out babies. Now go away. I have things to do."
Riza stood still for a moment, cut to the bone by his biting words. Was that really all that the future had in store for her? A lifetime of slaving away in places like this, for a wage she couldn't even live on, until she found a man who would lock her up in his house and order her around from morning until night as her father had?
No, she thought. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be all that she was good for! Why, she had accomplished more than that already! She had helped Mr. Mustang, aided him with his research and helped to set him on the path to greatness! He would become a State Alchemist, a great man capable of moulding the future of the whole nation, and she had helped him with that. Perhaps – perhaps there was more that she could do to help him. She wouldn't be just another girl careening off towards marriage.
"That's not true!" she protested, more forcefully than she meant to. "And I have got my diploma! I can do algebra and complicated arithmetic – I could help to balance the books, or I could reorganize your records or I could—"
"Look!" the man snapped, whirling on her angrily. "There's no more work for you here! You've got your pay for the week – the whole week, might I add, even though it's only Wednesday! There's nothing more I owe you. Get out of my sight or I'll call the soldiers and have you dragged off the premises! Go! Shoo! Get!"
A delicate, feminine cough from the other end of the broad warehouse interrupted his tirade just at the moment when Riza was sure he was going to raise his hand to strike her. Mr. Baxter turned towards the sound.
A pretty, statuesque woman was standing near the burly receiver. She had caramel-coloured hair, lightly feathered with grey and pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She had a kind face and she wore a sweet smile. The foreman grimaced in an attempt to look endearing.
"Mrs. Oakley!" he simpered. "What a surprise!"
"Is it?" she said pleasantly. "It's Wednesday after all. I'm here to pick up my last order of the season."
"Well, I'm sure David'll be able to manage..." Mr. Baxter muttered. He grabbed Riza's elbow and hustled her back into the warehouse.
"Get out!" he hissed, giving her a small shove towards the door. "I'm running a business here, not a charity. Out!"
Riza tried to gather her coat and her untouched dinner, but her hands were shaking now, and it was hard to coordinate them. She had lost her job! True, it was through no fault of her own, but the fact was that she had no work, and there would be no money. How would she explain to Mr. Mustang?
Trembling with anxiety, she stumbled out into the sunlight. The street was deserted, save for a little blue truck with a gangling young blonde behind the wheel, one arm draped lazily out of the open window. It was parked on the curb, and David the receiver was loading three crates of artificial flowers into the low bed.
As Riza watched, the woman came out of the warehouse. She exchanged a couple of quiet words with the receiver and gave him a bundle of bank notes. He nodded his thanks and disappeared inside, dragging the heavy bay door closed behind him. The woman looked up from her handbag and smiled at Riza.
"Hello, there," she said. "I'm Dorothy Oakley."
"Riza Hawkeye," Riza murmured, clutching her coat to her body and wishing that she could disappear. Today was a terrible day, and she wanted to run back to the tenement and hide herself away from the world.
"I couldn't help overhearing what Mr. Baxter was saying to you," the lady said, coming nearer and cocking her head to one side. "I take it you were working here?"
Riza nodded, fighting to retain her composure. She needed this job. She couldn't be without it. The wages, scanty though they were, paid for her food and what little coal she still needed, now that the weather was so clement.
"Is it true, what you said about your school diploma?"
"Yes, it is!" Riza cried, suddenly defiant. It was the one great pride in her life that she had finished her education. Even though her father had pulled her out of the one-room school in Hamner when she was not even eleven, she had been in the Fifth Reader class then, among fifteen- and sixteen-year olds. Her schoolteacher had put through the paperwork even though she had had more than a month to go before graduation, and he had given her the treasured diploma just before she had left her hometown to come to Central with Mr. Mustang. "I know I'm young, but I have it, and I could show it to you!"
Instead of being shocked by this outburst, Mrs. Oakley's smile softened still further. "I'm sure that's not necessary, love," she said. "Am I right in guessing you need work?"
Riza flushed, her anger abating as the despair flooded back. "I have to work," she whispered. "I have to."
"We all have to work, honey, whether we need money or not," Mrs. Oakley said. "If we were lazy all day, we'd shrivel up like old prunes."
Riza almost laughed. That was an interesting way of putting it. She couldn't imagine being lazy all day. The early weeks after her arrival in Central, when she had had nothing to do but sit in the tenement and wait for Mr. Mustang's nightly visits had been absolutely dreadful! "I suppose that's true, ma'am," she said.
"Now, I like to think I put in a good day's work," Mrs. Oakley said. "I own a flower shop, you know, and it takes a lot of work to keep it running. I've got my boy Orson to run the errands—" She nodded at the young man in the truck. "—and I do the arrangements and work with the customers, but ever since my husband died it's been a struggle to keep the ledgers in order. My daughter's the only one in the family with a head for figures, and she's away at finishing school in North City. I've been saying we simply must hire an accountant. Haven't I, Orson?"
The young man nodded emphatically.
"The only trouble is that I can't pay very much," Mrs. Oakley went on. "I could manage three hundred sens a week, but that's all, I'm afraid."
Riza's eyes were growing very wide. Was it possible that this lady was offering her work? And such work! Clerical duties, and three hundred sens a week? Why, with that kind of income she would be able to pay her own rent!
"Would you like to try it?" Mrs. Oakley asked. "Even if it was only for a week or two until you had a chance to find something better? No one's touched the books since my daughter was home on the New Year's holiday, and they really ought to be looked at..."
"Oh, ma'am," Riza breathed. "Do you mean it? I could work for you?"
"If you'd like to," Mrs. Oakley said.
"For three hundred sens a week?"
"It isn't much, I know," the lady said apologetically. "But it is such a small shop, and with all this unrest on the borders I don't think there'll be so many weddings this year, and—"
"I'd love to!" Riza cried, unable to contain herself any longer. She had to accept, before this kind-eyed woman could change her mind. "Where is your shop? When can I start? Do I need to bring anything with me?"
Mrs. Oakley laughed. "You could start today, if you like," she said.
"Oh, yes, please!" exclaimed Riza. "If you'll just tell me where to go, I'll—"
"Nonsense! You'll ride with us." Mrs. Oakley rounded the truck and opened the passenger door, motioning that Riza should climb up inside.
Riza scrambled in, sliding along the broad seat so that she was next to the young man. He turned to smile at her. He had a stout middle and stubby legs, and his face was very flat and broad: a wide forehead and a heavy, rounded jaw, eyes slanted slightly downwards in a way that Amestrian eyes did not usually slant. His blonde hair was curly and unruly. His enormous smile overflowed with a pure joy in living.
"I'm Orson," he said cheerfully. "You're pretty."
Riza was startled by this blatant assertion. "I... thank you," she stammered. "I'm Riza. Pleased to meet you."
His smile, if possible, grew still more enormous. "Pleased to meet you, too!" he said. "We goin' back to the store, Mama?"
"Yes, please, love," Mrs. Oakley said happily, closing the door and smoothing her skirt.
Riza gasped and stiffened as the truck rumbled forward. She could feel it shuddering beneath her, and she wondered if it was going to explode. She had never been inside an automobile before, and it was a frightening experience. She looked hastily at Mrs. Oakley, who was looking serenely out of the windshield, and then at Orson, who was grinning happily as he navigated around the corner. It must be that the truck was meant to make such noises, Riza thought, trying to calm her nerves.
Then she realized that she had a job after all, and one that paid almost four times what the factory work had! She stole another glance at the kind lady next to her. Everything was going to be all right, she realized. Three hundred sens a week!
And, she realized, Mrs. Oakley had not even asked her age!
