“You don’t mean to say,” I ask slowly, afraid to believe it, “that this money is mine to keep, as well as my week’s wages?”
“Yes, indeed. It may not feel like a lot, but the more you earn, the more you get to keep. Every penny counts. Imagine getting twenty of these in a week. That’s like you’re getting paid four dollars and twenty cents.”
Tips. What a wonderful concept. I didn’t think it was possible for me to pay even closer attention to my work, but now I do. I’m grateful for every day they let me come through the staff door and scrub the floors. I make twenty-five extra cents over the next two weeks. Not all the guests are inclined, but I know not to expect anything. A guest who tips is like a four-leaf clover: hard to find and lucky to have.
I don’t mention tips to Damien. What if the waiters do not receive them? Not that I wouldn’t share if he asked, but they’re paid well enough, I imagine. He said nine dollars a week, so I don’t suppose tips matter so much.
At the end of my first month at the Dominion, I am summoned to Mrs. Evans’s office. I’ve done nothing wrong, and yet I’m hot and bothered as I stand before her, my hands behind my very straight back, like Da taught me. He was in the army years ago, and that’s how he used to stand at attention, he said.
“You’ve done very well, Rosie,” she says. “Can I assume you have received more tips?”
I picture my little box of coins, tucked away safe under the floorboard beneath my bed. I feel a twist in my stomach, fearing she’ll take it all back. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It makes one feel good, receiving tokens of recognition, doesn’t it?” She stares intently at me. “Now I’ve a question for you. Tell me, Miss Ryan, have you noticed anything strange about any of your guests?”
First, I warm when she calls them “my” guests. Then I rack my brain trying to think of anything out of the ordinary to tell her. I suppose ’tis odd how some women set their things in rank and file in the washroom, while others pile everything willy-nilly in a corner. One gentleman hung all his shirts inside out, I recall. Mr. Hargrove was very firm with me, he was, saying that I should scrub all the lipstick off his shirt when I took it to the laundry or I would “have hell to pay.” He needn’t have said that, but then, Mr. Hargrove wasn’t aware that I’ve worked the laundry before. I know very well that lipstick comes out easily with the right sort of care. Some people scrub with water, but that only spreads the stain. The trick is to force the lipstick out from the back of the fabric instead of the front. I laid his collar flat on a towel, stain side down, then I dabbed acetone on the back, moving the towel as the lipstick melted through and the towel got dirty. After that, the shirt was ready to launder.
When I brought Mr. Hargrove the clean shirt, he inspected it closely, then declared he was satisfied that he could not see the stain anymore—which I knew meant he was satisfied thathis wifewouldn’t see it—then he gave me a nickel.
I can think of more examples, but these little things she’s asking about, well, they’re my guests’ little things, aren’t they? Everyone seems to be hiding something behind their hotel room door. It feels wrong to share their secrets.
“None at all, ma’am.”
That earns approval from Mrs. Evans, I can tell. “Discretion is extremely important in this job, as I have stressed to all of you before. I’m pleased you have chosen not to share anything with me. No one wants a gossip around, and every guest in this hotel must be able to trust they will receive confidentiality.” She opens a drawer in her desk and hands me an envelope. “You will now be receiving the full amount of seven dollars every week. Thank you for your excellent work, Rosie.”
I am walking on air with the angels all the way home. And I’ll be keeping all those tips, too.
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Damien says, watching me.
“Why shouldn’t I be? Mrs. Evans gave me— What is it called when I get paid more?”
“A raise,” he says sagely. “You got a raise, did you, Rosie? Well then. That’s reason to celebrate. Good for you, my girl.”
My girl.I do like the sound of that, I confess.
My days are long, but when I walk home in the dark, I set store by the pain in my feet and the sharp ache in my back. I appreciate the clanging in my belly as I get closer to my cold meal of stewed pork, because I know I earned it. I put the meat in a pot this morning, and I hope Granny’s cooked it. Her legs have been keeping her in bed these days, and my brothers are next to useless even if they show up.
Somebody’s cooking in The Ward. Lots of somebodies, really. I smell so many things it makes my head swim.
“What’s got you smiling now?” Damien asks.
“Something smells good that way.”
He sniffs. “Garlic.”
I’ve inhaled a rainbow of smells today, as I always do. After I’ve packed up my cloths and cleaners and hung up my uniform, the harsh stink of bleach is locked away, and the air in the corridors is replaced by aromas from the kitchen. All day I pass through the hallways, taking in smells most of my neighbours cannot imagine. The hotel swirls with so many fragrances at once, it’s hard to place them all, from the guests’ cologne and perfumes, to the polished banisters and walls, to the bouquets blooming off the flowers that I imagine stand in every corner of the lobby.
Outside the hotel, the spell of the smells is briefly interrupted by noise, but when I sniff, I take in the underlying stink of smoke from chimneys, exhaust from cars, and even a hint of the lake, though the reek of fish is not as strong as it used to be ten years ago. That’s when the trucks from the Harbour Commission loaded up and dumped fill into the harbour. They said ’twas to give people more space for building. And so, Front Street, which used to actuallybethe city’s front street, is no longer on the shore, and we now have a slightly cleaner, or at least less fishy, smell around here.
The Dominion Hotel is a few blocks south of my home. I walk along York Street, and every night the air changes as soon as I reach King Street. It’s the halfway point between where the wealthy live and where I live. Sometimes The Ward isn’t so bad. My mouth waters when I meet up with mysterious spices and sauces from Ireland, China, Africa, Italy, Ukraine, and who knows where else.
When I get home, Bianca is standing by my door, arms crossed, her hip jutting out a bit. Before I reach her, I face Damien.
“You’d best leave me with this one.”
That makes him smile. “You don’t think I’d find it amusing?”
“Maybe you would, but I don’t want to have to deal with the both of you.”
