Matron, of the Hopewood Orphanage suffered from migraines and this Susanne Harwood debacle was an extremely unwanted find. New contract teatcher, Mr Davidsen had retreated to his own rooms. Only smell of pipe tobacco, was occasionally wafting through the corridors behind his shadowy form. Rumors circulated like wildfire around the facility, word murder was whispered, but if that was so, by whose hand, her own, or? Calling in authorities was a possibility, but Matron was well aware of the meager state of aid to the orphanages, and it was a well-known fact that accidents did happen.
Orphans walked corridors, in orderly rows, as ever. There were glances, curious, numb, tense, or confused, were exchanged, and sometimes cautious whispers would fly. As days passed, Matron had heard several complaints that Mary Vance's ghost stories were keeping others awake, at a time when the resumption of normal routines was paramount. So, with determination she called Mary Vance, once more in her office.
Child arrived, wiping her chafed hands on her stained apron. Matron looked at Mary Vance, silently. Lass seemed same as usual, extremely efficient. There was a harder, colder, look in her pale blue eyes than before and her lank braids were mussed.
When silence had lasted for more than ten minutes, and the child standing on the carpet made no outwardly nervous movements, Matron put down her ledger and inquired. "May I assume that the reason you were late for your meal a couple of weeks ago is because you may have found Susanne Harwood in the laundry room?"
Mary Vance said in an expressionless voice, "You have accurate records, Mam. My name is on that day's laundry shift, to watch fire. Miz Harwood was already deid when I arrived. If she hadn't I would have called for help from the infirmary. "
"Don't, speak so wickedly, child. I remember that the handkerchief around her neck was been tied in a certain way that is peculiar, a sort of variation of the sailor's knot, which requires very quick, fingers. Also there's been talk that you've been scaring others by telling bloody horror stories, about Susanne's ghost walking the halls of Hopewood, thirsting for revenge, and then there's that other story about the girl who hanged herself in the attic, and there's nothing there but old clothes bags. This behavior must stop. In a few days, you will soon be leaving Hopewood."Matron said in a rebuking tone of voice.
Mary Vance nodded, with a small jerk-like gesture, and pointedly she inquired, " Mrs Wylie does she live in the city, or in some country village Mam?" Matron, glanced at Mrs. Wylie's letter, and a small stack of some bills, which was for young Mary Vance's travel tickets. The handwriting in the letter was upward and old-fashioned, and the ink was runny and faint. Matron said gruffly "There is no need to be asking noisy questions, now be useful, in the kitchen."
Quietly door closed behind Mary Vance, and Matron turned her attention back to her papers. Mary Vance's slim folder lay half open on the chair, and frowning, Matron slipped it into the locked drawer, the click of the metal lock sounding eerie in the quiet room.
As the foamy bluish-green waves broke through the hull of the battered greyish streamer ship, there were pair of seagulls, they swooped in the cloudy sky, in elaborate circles. Mary Vance sat in the windbreak, and looked out to sea.
Before there had been, grimy dust choked streets, all places one could find moonshine, in dirty, jagged bottles, or something even stronger, if there was harshly barked order to do so, or else. Mary Vance knew how to be almost invisible, if there was truly a need for it, because she had learned hard way.
The hustle and bustle of Hopewood had been adjustment. Time seemed to run like a gray, unchanging, coarse woolen thread that wound tightly around her like she was a wooden spindle. Mary Vance knew she was very practical, moonlight and romance were futility. Survival, wit, anticipation of danger was only reasonable course to take, because one never knew what was going to happen as could be seen from the fate of Susanne Harwood. Living, laughing in one instant, and mangled corpse, in a blink of an eye. Often, in the dark corridors, it had been whispered that Susanne was just like Ms. Temple, but Mary Vance, paid no attention to such talk. Perhaps had been some previous teacher at Hopewood, now long dead, or some wealthy benefactor of unwanted orphans.
Hopewood was an institution, but even the worst institution is better than living on the streets, or other more sinister, immoral options. In the dormitory, other girls whispered stories about children who were lured to live in rich houses, or who were sold into workhouses, to spin wool, or run heavy machines until their legs gave out. Life was not a gild edged poem, in a prayer book, ballad or a sonnet, not for Home children, instead it was a battleground. Everyone were competing with each other, taking away opportunities, like breadcrumbs from each other's plates. Adoption was a dream, an entrance ticket to the wild merry-go-round of a new life, and opportunities, even if they could be scarce.
A passer-by on deck, a well-dressed woman, hummed a tune that sounded familiar to Mary. That small, light rising note seemed to tickle under Mary Vance's skin, like ants roaming there, but there was nothing to cling to. No directions, nothing but, noise, and the sound of breaking glass, and quiet broken whispers of someone who was gone, had been for years. There was only faint fragmentary memories, they were not concrete at all. A gusty wind had picked up, and Mary, eyes watering, slipped onto the inner deck, which was thick with tobacco and pipe smoke. Leaning against the corner of the bumpy lodge, Mary crossed her arms, and watched her fellow travelers warily.
Steamership arrived at Charlottetown. Curious, Mary looked around and saw tall impressive buildings, office buildings, churches. Turning, Mary headed through the crowds towards the train station.
In the third class carriage, she sat in scuffed, worn bench, as she looked out the window. The train meandered along its track, and stations flew past. Other passengers discussed in a low voice news of the area. Mary sharpened her ears. She had sharp ears, like cats, did, and keen memory for details.
"The price of potatoes has gone up again." "I hope the harvest of the coming fall will be good." " Did you hear that in the Glen, Mrs. Marshall Elliot has a new plan again to get more names for the new fundraiser for Laides Aid. It must be said that lady is one of the best housekeepers and bakers all over the Glen, and it is rumored that her tarts and pies have won several prizes."
"The Manse has been vacant, and Presbyterians have to be content with visiting ministers. It has been some time since Mr. Hill, moved away. Was the reason that the some girls of Harbour Head chased him like a fat mouse."
"And Doctor Blythe's reputation as a doctor may be exaggerated. Mrs. Blythe is still as red-headed as ever. The children of ingelside, are quite a bunch, vivd, well-spoken, and lively. Naturally they would be, with a mother who was former principal at some school, was it so? I do declaire that grim, grey housekeeper of theirs, is too proud of her position."
Late April sunlight glimmered on shadowy blue scilla flowers, that grew in small patches, all over green banks, as Mary Vance's train pulled into station. And wearily, Mary got off the train, and stood on the reddened road.
A lonely scrap of a child, observing bustling hum-drum of country-life all around her, neigbours that greeted each other in warm way, and there even was a pair of children, two girls well dressed, with gleaming braids that shone in the sun. And there were verdant trees, leafy ones, but no pines to be seen.
And suddenly she felt cold, twisted fingers touch her shoulder, and a frail voice said "So you're the Home child, then. Well, you're not spoiled for looks, but I don't want looks, just work, lot of it. I'm Mrs. Wylie, and I've borrowed a cart from my neighbor. Get on. Your bags, can be picked up later."