But the flow never came. It wasn’t that she performed badly. She didn’t make a mistake and if her pace was slower, it was only by a fraction. Still, her concentration was fractured. She was too aware of the room. She found herself looking across the aisle to where Jessica was typing away, searching the keyboard with a crease between her eyebrows until she would find a letter, grin, and punch it with a single finger.
It looked like a slow process, but in her gut Eleanor knew itwouldn’t always be so. Soon, Jessica wouldn’t have to look for each letter. She would become familiar with the keyboard, just as Eleanor knew her typecase by heart. She wouldn’t need to turn her attention away from the page she was reading to punch the keys, and the reality was that the click and sliding matrix was faster than Eleanor could ever be.
Eleanor bit back tears as she tried to concentrate. Maybe she’d focused too much on strengthening her arms and her back to withstand a long day and not enough on her dexterity. Maybe she could train her fingers to move more quickly, even though they currently worked at lightning speed. What exercises could she do to make her shoulders and arms bend and turn just a fraction faster? The shirt she wore was embroidered, and the cuffs embellished. If she wore something thinner, lighter, plainer, would that increase her speed by one percent, even? All she needed was to find a dozen one percents and maybe she’d not become irrelevant.
She insisted Lillian and Mabel go for lunch but stayed at her desk to work through it, even though she was slower without their help and hunger gnawed at her. But she would do whatever it took to compensate for her sudden shortcomings. She would show Mr. Bell that she was still worth the money he paid her. When the end-of-lunch bell sounded, her friends entered, smiling and laughing with the others.
Three hours later, when there were still two hours of their shift remaining, Jessica sauntered over. “I’m finished with my pages,” she said. “Would you like some help? You must be backed up if you worked through lunch.”
“I’m fine,” Eleanor replied.
“Are you? I’m happy to take a page or two. It’s better than sitting there, twiddling my thumbs.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing my own work, thank you.” Who did this girl think she was?
Jessica took the pages from Lillian, interrupting Eleanor’s flow. “Don’t be silly. You’ve still got ten pages to go. Let me take the last few.” She handed some loose leaves back. “We’re a team.”
Eleanor watched her leave, consumed by a sense of loathing Jessica did not deserve. “How many pages did she take?”
Lillian swallowed. “Six. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means we can leave early. You can get a proper break before Lady Wharton drags you out again.”
A proper break. Just a week ago, she would have loved that. She would have used the time to read the Captain’s latest letter and annotate thoughts in the margins ofJo’s Boys, so that she could share them with him.
But the Captain had disappeared, just as the rest of her life threatened to. “Let’s just finish this.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, save for the melodic hum of Lillian’s voice as she dictated news about the crash of the New York stock exchange. Eleanor did not have the energy to be interested. Instead, scenarios tumbled through her mind. She could continue to work Mondays atThe Times, knowing that although she might be the hardest worker in the room, she would not be delivering the highest output. Mr. Bell would eventually demand to renegotiate her contract. He might well cancel it.
A shudder went down her spine. She had never been fired. She couldn’t bear the thought. Even now, before it had happened, shame flooded her until her ears rang, her mouth went dry, and her chest drew in on itself, as though being rolled in the heavy cylindrical press. Her hands shook as she placed the last few sorts.
“I have to go,” she blurted, pressing the composing stick into Mabel’s hands.
She didn’t check her sorts or workstation; she simply slammed the typecase shut, snatched the handle, and raced out of the print room as fast as her pride would allow her.
Outside, she paced, blowing out short, hot breaths as she tried to get the horses in her chest to quit stampeding. Up and down, she strode. She probably looked crazy, but what did it matter at this point?
After what felt like an impossibly long time, Lillian and Mabel followed.
“Eleanor? Are you all right?” Lillian asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“I cannot go back in there.” Her voice sounded as frenzied as her mind was. “I’m sorry, but I cannot.”
“Today was hard.” Lillian gently pried the typecase from Eleanor’s hand and set it on the ground. She entwined their fingers, giving Eleanor’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It will get better. You will get used to it.”
Get used to being lesser than? Get used to competing against colleagues who would soon outstrip her? This was the one thing she was good at. It was the one thing she’d been admired for. It was the one thing at which she wouldn’t fail.
Eleanor, how can you answer every question the teacher asks, but not remember to take your lunch to school?
Eleanor, how can you remember the names of every monarch, in order, but not remember to stop by the washerwoman on your way home from school?
Oh, Eleanor, why can’t you get your head out of a book and go play games, like a normal girl?
But she could read like the wind, and set type just as fast,and her grandfather would parade her around the print room.That’s my girl,he would say.When are you lot going to bring your grandchildren to work?His colleagues would huff and tell him how lucky he was, and her parents would pinch her cheeks and tell her how good she was. Once a week there would be dessert after dinner.
“Eleanor?” Lillian sounded more concerned than she ever had.
Eleanor shook her head and tried to force a smile. “I will find us additional work. It will be fine. Publishers beg for our time. I can pick up a day somewhere else. Until then, I promise there will be no change in your earnings. I’ll pay you as much next week as I did last.”
“Eleanor,” Mabel said. Her pity caused actual pain. She had remained beyond arm’s reach, shifting from foot to foot, twisting the handle of her purse in knots.
