Page 7 of The Harvey Girls
When the last train passenger had scurried out the door, and only the locals were left to eat their meals at a more leisurely pace, Frances called Charlotte and Billie over.
They followed her to a corner of the kitchen out of sight of the lunchroom and were soon met by a large man whose overworked suit buttons looked as if they might leap to their death at any moment.
“This is Mr. Gilstead, the Topeka Harvey House manager.”
“Very happy to meet you both,” he said.
“I wouldn’t get too happy about it,” said Frances.
“I’m not sure which one of them I’d like to fire more.
This one”—she nodded her chin at Billie—“poured coffee all over a customer. And this one”—she hitched a thumb at Charlotte—“tried to improve the situation by telling the customer she was fine and not to complain so much.”
“I didn’t actually say—”
“See what I mean?” Frances said to Gilstead. “A quibbler.”
“We can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t.”
Mr. Gilstead nodded. “I’ll call Miss Steele.”
Frances frowned at them for a moment. “We could use the help.”
“We are short-staffed, it’s true.”
“This one’s mind is as sharp as her tongue, and the other’s good with the tough customers. Had that coffee lady buying postcards instead of complaining inside of a quick minute.”
“They’ll stay, then.”
“For now. But I’ll keep my eye on them. I won’t brook incompetence.”
Frances walked back into the lunchroom with Mr. Gilstead lumbering after her like a trained bear. Billie let out the breath she’d been holding and crumpled against the wall.
“Whatever is the matter?” said Charlotte.
“We just about got fired!”
“We most certainly did not,” Charlotte scoffed. “They never had any intention whatsoever of firing us.”
“But she said —”
“It was a false threat. She was just letting us know who’s really in charge, and it certainly doesn’t seem to be that Gilstead fellow. If there was firing to be done, she would have done it.” If living with a bully had taught Charlotte anything, it was how to tell bluster from danger.
“She’s right about that,” came a voice from behind the pot rack. A moment later a young man appeared, the one they had seen calling for diners across the train platform. At close range, there was a tiny constellation of gravy spattered across his white shirt.
He gazed at Billie for an extra minute and raised his hand. Billie’s face went hot, and she looked away. Charlotte frowned in confusion.
He crossed his arms and went on. “Frances cows the other girls, but only because she takes it so serious.”
“Takes what so serious?” asked Billie.
“Lunch.” He shrugged and smiled at the absurdity of it.
Billie grinned. Charlotte shook her head, but she felt a little less annoyed about the ridiculous dressing down she’d been given.
The young man introduced himself as Leif Gunnarsson.
He’d only begun working at the restaurant a few months before, as it turned out, but it was long enough to get the lay of the land.
“They’re tough on you because they want to weed out the ones who won’t make it out on the line.
Topeka’s a railroad town. Half the people who live here work for the Santa Fe, and the other half are the barbers and butchers and boardinghouse keepers we all go to.
They don’t make a fuss if a girl drops a plate or gets an order wrong.
Out on the line—especially at the big houses like the Alvarado in Albuquerque or El Tovar at the Grand Canyon—you can’t have a lemon wedge out of place. ”
“So we can expect to be hectored and threatened,” said Charlotte, “but as long as we learn what’s required and don’t fall apart, they’ll keep us.”
Leif nodded. “That’s the size of it.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Billie breathed.
He studied the girl for a moment, then looked at Charlotte.
“We need the jobs,” she said, and headed back to the lunchroom.
The trains came and went all afternoon and into the evening.
If the Harvey Girls weren’t serving customers, they were polishing silver till it seemed lit from within, folding napkins to stand perfectly at attention at each place setting, or wiping down every imaginable surface over and over until Charlotte began to wonder if they’d wipe the varnish right off the wood.
After several hours, Charlotte’s back began to hurt—she’d never done so much manual labor in all her life!
Billie, however, seemed to chug along like a freight train.
The girl lifted tray-loads of dirty dishes as if they weighed as little as the hats Charlotte used to sell.
She also tended to run into things, but with a little smile or self-deprecating comment, she seemed to be able to put people at ease.
Charlotte wished she had both the girl’s strength and temperament.
Finally at nine o’clock, after the last train had come through for the evening, and every station had been cleaned one last time and prepared for the morning shift, the women trudged upstairs.
“Change into your nightgowns and come and sit in the sewing room with us, so we can get to know you!” said one of the other girls.
Charlotte didn’t want to get to know anyone, especially not some gaggle of uneducated farm girls.
She wanted only to make it through the month of training so she could be sent out on the line, with any luck to one of the Harvey Houses in California or Texas.
The farther away from St. Louis, the better.
Besides, she’d never been so physically exhausted in all her life.
“Aren’t you sweet,” said Billie, smiling a little too brightly, “but I’m about to fall asleep in my shoes!”
The girl let out a laugh. “Ah, you’ve never had a day as long as this one, have you? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.”
Charlotte hitched herself behind the wagon of Billie’s excuse and followed her back to their room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Billie sank down onto her bed, put her hands to her face, and began to sob. The freight train had suddenly become a fragile flower.
Charlotte had never seen a girl weep so profusely with so little provocation, not even Lucretia Lodge, who was forever making excuses about her delicate nature.
At least Lucretia had the decency to secret herself away in the dorm linen closet when she felt it coming on, red-rimmed eyes the only indication of her weak constitution.
Charlotte found it mildly pitiable. Crowninshields didn’t have weak constitutions, nor did they cry. Ever.
This girl didn’t seem to understand the social imperative of emotional control or, at the very least, secrecy.
She certainly wasn’t dashing for the linen closet.
Charlotte decided to give the wretched thing a moment alone to collect herself.
Besides, she seemed strangely sensitive about changing her clothes in another’s presence, which Charlotte had grown accustomed to from her days of sharing a dorm room.
Didn’t these lower-class girls always have scads of siblings?
Surely someone like Billie had never had a bedroom to herself.
Feeling charitable, Charlotte gathered up her nightgown and headed for the bathroom to change her clothes, brush her teeth, and splash some water on her face. When she returned, Billie had changed as well. But she was still crying.
Good Lord. She makes Lucretia Lodge seem positively stoic.
In the few moving pictures Charlotte had seen, emotional women were often comforted by other women. The husband had gone off to war, or absconded with the rent money, or some such nonsense, and a friend or sister would clutch the poor weeping wife to her breast and croon words of sympathy.
Well, there certainly would be no clutching or crooning on Charlotte’s part, but perhaps a bit of chin-up-old-bean might make the girl settle down and go to sleep.
Charlotte sighed and sat down on her own bed. “It’s been a long, tiring day,” she said. “Best to get some rest.”
Billie’s hands came from her damp, red face, and she glared at Charlotte. “I’m not tired ,” she hissed. “This was a regular workday for me. Twelve hours with hardly a minute to fart. The problem with you is you think you’re too good for it, and you’re dead wrong!”
“And the problem with you is you think you’re not good enough for it, and you’re wrong. It’s waitressing, for goodness’ sake, one step up from a saloon girl!”
“Keep to yourself, is all I want.”
“And you shall have it!”
Charlotte yanked the chain on the wall lamp with a snap, pulled up her covers, and faced the wall. The sniveling giant baby had seen the last of her pity!
On the other side of the room, the bedsprings creaked and then went silent. But the sounds of muffled sobbing continued unabated.