“There are so many women,” Mabel said.
It was true. At least thirty percent of the newcomers wore practical skirts of varying dark shades and crisp, white shirts with simple collars.
“Do you think it’s punishment?” Lillian asked. “The men revolted and so they were replaced by women and young boys in retaliation?”
“Punishment or progress,” Mabel murmured. “Perhaps Mr. Bell is signaling a new era.”
A new era that left them behind.
There were only a handful of compositor’s desks remaining. Eleanor’s was one of them. She swallowed and made her way to it, trying to ignore the forcefulthump-thump-thumpof herheart, which might literally break free from her chest. A box of Eleanor’s sorts that had formed part of the previous issue was perched on the table next to a wash bucket. Mabel sighed and took it to be filled. While Lillian was dictating and Eleanor was composing, Mabel would scrub.
As Eleanor began to set up for the day, placing her typecase on the angled table, two women crossed the aisle that separated the new from the old.
“Jessica,” one said, thrusting her hand forward. “And that’s Elizabeth, but everyone calls her Lizzie.”
Everyone calls her Lizzie.Like they’d been around long enough for nicknames to catch on.
Eleanor sighed. That wasn’t charitable. The new staff weren’t at fault here. They’d seen an opportunity and acted on it. Eleanor would have admired that initiative in practically every other scenario.
“When did you start?” Lillian asked.
“Friday. There was an advertisement in Thursday’s paper calling for people who were good with their hands—seamstresses, butchers, and the like. They interviewed us that day and we started the next.”
An advertisement in Thursday’s paper, which meant that it had been written, set, and printed in a single afternoon. Maybe the advertisement had been a single line or two. Even the laziest compositor could set two lines of type in one afternoon.
“I was a kitchen maid,” Elizabeth said. “Lord, I am glad to get out of service.”
“I told them I was a kitchen maid,” Jessica added. “Truth is, when I wasn’t descaling the fish Da had caught, I was helping Ma with my sisters. Always wanted a career, now here I am.”
Jessica’s grin sent a white-hot frustration coursing throughEleanor. Sheshouldbe happy for the girl. There was no bigger advocate for women in the workforce than herself. The more women there were creating their own independent lives, the better.
But not here. Notherlife.
“I’m thrilled for you,” she said, trying hard to conceal the lie. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to work.” She unlatched the typecase, flipped it open, and then proceeded to check each letter and punctuation mark to make sure they all faced forward and right-side up. She ran a finger over the edge of each sort, checking for dried ink or damage that could cause imperfections. All the while, Lillian and Mabel chatted with the newcomers, who took great interest in how the usual setting of type worked.
“We don’t have to do any of that,” Jessica said, gesturing to Eleanor as she continued to work through her case. “The machine resets all the matrices itself. The metal slugs get thrown back into the melt after the printing is done, and the foundry hands do that.”
Eleanor didn’t comment. Maybe if she was completely silent, these women would take the hint and leave.
“Surely the slugs must be cleaned before they’re used again,” Mabel said.
Jessica shrugged. “I haven’t seen it, but they say that the ink and such bubbles to the top and can be skimmed off in a second.”
Mabel raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. My fingers are permanently dry and cracked. It would be lovely not to have to scrub again.”
The comment hurt. Yes, Mabel had complained of dry hands. They had all complained. There were times Lillian’s voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. Still, she did herjob. Eleanor’s neck and shoulders ached regularly, her back would lock up, and some evenings she would need to soak her tired hands in hot water and Epsom salts to relieve the cramps.
But pain was proof that the day had not been idle, and hard work was what made a person. It always had been. It always would be. These new compositors would never know the satisfaction that came from a long shift setting hundreds of words by hand. The easy way could not bring satisfaction. How much pain could one earn sitting for hours a day?
The seven o’clock bell rang and a handful of familiar faces trickled in—colleagues she knew with defeated or disgusted expressions, along with some bright-eyed, bouncing novices.
“Oops. That’s us,” Jessica said. “We’ll be right over there if you need anything.”
Eleanor barely managed a smile.
“They seem nice,” Mabel said, taking her place on the stool by Eleanor, the composing boxes on one side of her. She sat the box of dirty type at her feet and glared at it.
Eleanor drummed her fingers on her table. She had enough on her mind without Mabel’s sudden dissatisfaction with that aspect of her job. “Let’s get started,” she said curtly, keen to reach the state of flow that would numb anything else she was feeling.
