Anything but Still Lives: The Worlds of Edward Hopper
terrazzo floor to a polished mahogany reception desk, handed in her key – 1027. ‘You’ve already finalised your account, Miss?’
‘Yester evening,’ she confirmed as the boy behind the counter pulled a receipt from the pigeonhole.
‘But my plans have changed slightly,’ she continued. ‘Is it possible to stow my luggage till later in the day?’
He smiled. ‘No trouble,’ he said. ‘And no extra charge.’
Relief swamped her belly. Ridiculous, really, as it would probably only amount to a couple of dimes, but she was so conscious of how quickly her savings would disappear if she didn’t stay vigilant. Turning to go, and buttoning her coat in expectation of a typical November morning, she inadvertently caught the eye of Mrs Molly Brown sitting there on the grand lounge, perhaps waiting for her driver, perhaps just sitting and waiting to be noticed.
‘No!’ Mrs Brown exclaimed. ‘You’re not leaving us, sugar plum?’
She sat down beside the famous figure, Titanic survivor, charity fundraiser, actress and teacher, and sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Brown,’ and, lowering her voice, ‘I lost my job, see, and, well, prospects are slim.’
The older woman took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze, accustomed as she was to dispensing homespun wisdoms. ‘Follow your heart,’ she advised. ‘It’ll show you the way.’ And – ‘God sends these things to try us. But there’s always someone worse off. Now don’t you go forgetting that!’
Clare’s eyes were moist. Yes. If her parents knew she was wallowing in self-pity, they’d be doubly disappointed.
‘Now, un-hunch those shoulders,’ Mrs Molly Brown commanded, ‘and go find your way.’
It was chill out, a briskness that stung her cheeks and pushed her hands deeper down in her pockets. She began to walk. Downtown. A natural instinct, it was where her office job had been until a few days ago. Down in the Garment District at a workshop – twenty cutters and machinists making factory overalls for the Brooklyn Shipyards, amongst others. It was their biggest contract, the one they didn’t dare lose.
She’d been the manager’s secretary, working her obligatory 44 hours, taking dictation, typing up letters of introduction, letters of offer, letters requesting payment, letters demanding payment. Letters she walked up to the General Post Office each day beneath shadows cast by the new Empire State Building. And then back to the office, filing all those carbons of all those letters. Filing, filing, filing. So many letters. So many carbons. So much hope wrapped up in so many words. Still, it didn’t help. Slowly, slowly, slowly, business slowed down.
She walked, pushing her hands as far into her pockets as they would go. Three days back, Mr Massey had sat her down, told her the news.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Baker-Hamilton,’ he’d begun, ‘but I have to let you go. And half the women on the shop floor as well. I don’t know if it’ll be enough for us to keep the business’ head above water, but I have to try. My wife will make the typing, I just can’t afford your salary no more.’
He’d given her an extra week’s pay together with the ten despondent women chosen at random. It was more than the union would have been able to negotiate in these God-awful times. ‘Guilt money,’ one called it with gritted teeth. But no, Clare thought, he’s just a good man. We were lucky to be working for a good man.
Always someone worse off, she remembered, as her feet maintained their perpetual motion, past the Garment District, still heading downtown, now on 6th, the Avenue of the Americas. She walked. It didn’t seem to matter where.
Always someone worse off, she thought, remembering the women laid off with her, women she’d only ever known slightly. Most were migrants with limited English. She had been shy amongst them in the tea room, hadn’t experienced such types back home in Montana. They were all older, tougher, with families, kids to feed, husbands already out of work or gone for good. Their jokes were rough. Their teeth were clenched. It fit the times.
Yes, Clare, she reminded herself, stop being such a sop. There’s always someone worse off.
She came across a bread line. Poor souls. They stood and shuffled, in a dance with no partner. From foot to foot, to a beat with no tune. Muttering occasionally, or standing mute, shell-shocked by ill-fortune, blowing stale breath into mitten-less hands, tugging collars higher around cold necklines caked in grimy sweat.
It was only November, she thought. It’ll only get worse. Poor, poor souls.
The line continued in the direction she walked. But she slowed her pace, couldn’t help but move more slowly as a mark of respect, in silent concert with their plight, watching the faces, registering the pain, acknowledging the sorrow. So the line continued and turned the corner at West 14th.
Follow your heart, said Mrs Molly Brown.
She turned where they turned. And there, halfway along the block, reached the head of the queue. Outside the Salvation Army Temple, its door firmly shut.
The first man in line, dull bloodshot eyes, chin chunky with grey stubble, arms firm across his chest, stood erect and eyed her suspiciously.
‘You waiting for a meal?’ she asked.
‘They’ll tell us when it’s ready,’ he responded.
‘Will there be enough places for all of you?’
‘As long as there’s one for me.’ Oh – the sadness, resignation, determination in his voice. Churned together in a soup of survival. I have only enough reserves for me.
She wondered if he had a family. Or had left a family. She wondered if he had labels like ‘failure’ at the forefront and turned away from his face.
But in point of fact, he had looked away long before, looked down and away from her sympathetic eyes. Pity, she realised. Forget pity, and while you’re at it, cry halt to all those ego-stroking noises of compassion. He wants action. They all want action, action to lift them out of this malaise. No comforting arms or kind words requested or required, thank you very much. Give over. Leave be! It brings nothing but satisfaction to a wallowing pig. They were beyond that. Dignity! their bowed bodies begged. Dignity, if you please! And a warm, full belly so we may tackle another day.
She turned away from his face and immediately into another, a picture stuck to the wall beside the door. A placard, actually, of a Salvation Army officer captioned as follows: ‘There is no reward equal to that of doing the most good to the most people in the most need.’ And ascribed to Evangeline Booth. Whoever she is, Clare thought. Whoever she is, those are fine words.
Spontaneous, immediate, deliberate. Like a jump from a cliff, launched in mid-stride, with no hesitation of how or where the landing might be. She knocked, opened the door and announced to an empty room: ‘I want to help.’
The bell tinkled a second time as she closed the door and stood firm in the foyer, a voice appearing before its owner. ‘No, no – it’s not time yet,’ stopping short as he caught up with his words, rounded the corner and saw Clare.
‘Err – can I help you, Miss?’ the young man asked.
‘I want to help,’ she repeated.
He lost some of his stiffness, smiled. ‘That’s mighty kind of you. This way.’
He led her fast down a corridor, down steps to a basement and round back of an eating hall into a kitchen. ‘You can leave your things here,’ he pointed. ‘Aprons are over there,’ he instructed.
‘Mavis?’ he called to an older woman with stiff curls. ‘Can you assign a task to Miss – Miss –’. He looked at her blankly.
‘Baker-Hamilton,’ she said.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘We’ll discuss formalities later,’ he said. ‘For now, good luck.’
She watched, listened and learned. ‘Mavis makes a little go a long way,’ a girl called Sally, probably around her own age, told. ‘It’s hot and wet, and well, bread always fills a belly. No matter if it’s stale,’ she smiled. ‘It’s always good for dunking.’
She stood on the line and handed out rolls. Few smiled. ‘Don’t think they’ve got any more smiles left in ’em,’ Sally whispered. ‘But we t
ry to keep it pleasant,’ and gave a wide and toothy grin to each one with a ‘Here you go,’ or ‘This’ll fill you up,’ which Clare tried to copy as best she could.
After all were served and at tables, the young man and a group of his fellow uniformed Salvos came in and sang. Bible songs, of course. They had good strong voices, and these voices were full of love. For God, Clare acknowledged, but especially for the grey wan faces bent low over their soup bowls.
‘Come on,’ Mavis roused. ‘No rest for the wicked. You can get to helping with tomorrow’s breakfast – we’ve got doughnuts to make,’ as the men filed out, back out into the cold. They seemed a little cheerier though. There were conversations to be heard now, and some hummed the tunes just sung.
She found herself doing likewise as she mixed sugar, lard and eggs into the batter. Mavis laughed. ‘You’ll soon get the words, m’ dear, and be singin’ ‘em in yer sleep!’ as they shared a chorus of one old favourite:
I love to tell the story,
‘Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story,
Of Jesus and his love.
‘I never get around to memorising the rest,’ Sally admitted as she cut dough and melted lard in the pans for frying.
Clare’s energy was waning. She hadn’t slept much last night, she remembered, trying to stifle a yawn, but wasn’t too successful.
Mavis smiled. ‘You’ll sleep well tonight, young lady.’
At that, Clare stopped short,