The Good Old Days
Mary Rose Norris had always been keenly interested in history. Even as a young child and then as a teenager, she yearned to live in the past and often fantasized about formal teas, dance cards, hoop skirts, pipe curls and high button shoes. While her peers flocked to the clothing, shoe and make-up stores at the mall, she haunted antique shops and museums. Furthermore, in a time when most other young women were reading Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts or Jackie Collins romances, Mary Rose was devouring Thomas B. Costain's nonfiction works on the Plantagenets of England, F. Van Wyck Mason's swashbuckling tales of life on the high seas, Bruce Catton's Civil War novels and Eleanor Hibbert's stories of kings and queens written under the pseudonyms Jean Plaidy and Victoria Holt.
Given her profound fondness for all things historical, it was quite natural for Mary Rose to take a job as a tour guide at the Van Dyne House and Museum, a meticulously restored eighteenth-century Georgian-era mansion whose elegant doors were open to the public. It proved to be the job of her dreams. She loved dressing in period costumes and leading small groups of tourists, students and members of various women's organizations and church groups through the old manor and would often pretend she was the lady of the house, graciously entertaining her guests.
Her coworkers at the Van Dyne House, like her fellow students when she was still attending high school, thought Mary Rose was a bit eccentric. She did not like listening to rock music, watching television or going to the movies. She did not surf the Internet and never drank, smoked or went out with men. Instead, she preferred to go home at the end of her workday to her small apartment despite there being no TV, DVD player, personal computer, stereo or even a radio on the premises. The only form of entertainment the odd young woman enjoyed was reading.
When she entered the door into her private domain in the evening, Mary Rose put on a tailored white blouse and a long straight skirt, reminiscent of a Gibson Girl. After a light dinner, she would read for several hours. Then she would shower and go to bed. It was a quiet, simple life, one most young people would find downright unbearable, but it suited her perfectly since she routinely avoided most things modern including cell phones, iPods, tablets and video games.
The only time Mary Rose deviated from her comfortable pattern was during her vacations. For two weeks every year, she made pilgrimages to historic sites such as Colonial Williamsburg, Plimoth Plantation, Mystic Seaport, Gettysburg and the Gilded Age mansions at Newport, Rhode Island. Meanwhile, she was saving up her money, hoping one day to take a trip to England where she hoped to visit the Tower of London, Hampton Court Palace and Hever Castle to tread in the footsteps of Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth and Ann Boleyn.
One day, while Mary Rose was walking home from the neighborhood grocery store—she rarely relied on public transportation when she could get where he was going on foot—she passed a group of local high school students. They were an androgynous-looking lot. Both the boys and girls wore their hair in short spikes and were dressed in hooded sweatshirts and baggy pants that hung precariously low on their hips and dragged at their feet.
How unattractive! she thought as she offered a silent prayer of thanks that she had not been born into this gangster rap generation.
"Yo! Wuz up?" she heard one redheaded, freckle-faced teen call to his friends.
The young man then followed his greeting with a conversation liberally seasoned with the most vulgar language Mary Rose had ever heard.
Rather than risking closer contact with the offensive youngsters, she crossed the road and walked through the park. That route took ten minutes longer for her to get home, but it was more pleasant than walking on the city streets. Halfway through the park, in the center of a well-tended flower garden, stood an old stone wishing well. As Mary Rose leaned over its side and stared at the assortment of coins at the bottom, she thought idly of the wishes that might have been bought with those coins. Most of them probably involved romance, and perhaps more than a few centered on money or success.
The young woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a quarter.
"What shall I wish for?" she asked herself. "I don't want love or wealth. Of course, if I could have anything in the world, no matter how illogical, I'd wish I lived in the past instead of in this time."
She tossed the quarter into the well—a small donation to a worthy charity—turned and hurried home, eager to leave behind all vestiges of the twenty-first century. As usual, when Mary Rose closed her apartment door, she shut out the present. She walked around her small living room, lovingly touching the inexpensive reproductions of antique furnishings, her beloved books and cherished knickknacks, all symbolic of a time long gone.
"Those were the good old days!" she said longingly.
As was her custom, she ate a light dinner, a tossed salad and a buttered roll, and then sat on her living room sofa to read. An hour before her regular bedtime, she began to feel the warning signs of a migraine, so she closed her book, took two aspirins and went to bed early.
* * *
The following morning Mary Rose awoke in a dark room. At first, she assumed that the fifteen-watt bulb in her nightlight had burned out, but then she noticed that there was no glow from the streetlight on the corner or from the neon sign on the bar across the street.
"Great! The power's gone out."
She got out of bed and was startled when her bare feet felt a cold, wooden floor rather than her familiar carpet. The rug was not the only thing that was missing. As Mary Rose walked across the room with her hands held out in front of her, she became completely disoriented. She finally felt a door and opened it.
A slight scream escaped from her lips. It was not her apartment. The door opened into an old kitchen where two middle-aged people sat at a small table, illuminated by a grimy oil lamp.
"'Bout time you got up," the woman said to her. "No time for breakfast. Off to work with you. You don't want to be late."
"Are you speaking to me?" Mary Rose asked.
The two people looked at each other and then at her.
"Who else would I be talkin' to?" the woman asked.
"I don't know you. How did I get here?"
"Listen, girl," the man growled. "We've no time for your foolishness. Get to work before you lose your job."
Mary Rose stood for a moment, taking in the details of the room and the people at the table. There were no electrical appliances, no modern conveniences of any kind. The two people were dressed in clothing from the turn of the century, and not the most recent one.
"This is incredible!" she said with astonishment. "I got my wish!"
The man rose menacingly.
"You'll get the back of my hand if you don't go to work."
Mary Rose dressed quickly, left the small, rundown house and entered the world of the past. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves as she saw horses and wagons rattling down the street where only yesterday SUVs and minivans sped by. The stench was overpowering. Garbage, rotting food, animal manure, unwashed bodies and human waste combined to make a foul, sickening odor. She raised her hand to cover her nose.
"This is my neighborhood."
She could recognize some of the landmarks, although most of the city had changed drastically over the years.
"This is incredible!" she exclaimed, delighted to be a part of a simpler time.
Perhaps this is just a dream, she thought as she walked down Maple Lane toward the Van Dyne House. But it seems so real.
She entered the side door of the Van Dyne house, which in her time was the employee's entrance. Now it was a door into the kitchen, one normally used by servants and deliverymen.
"And just who are you?" the cook asked.
"I'm Mary Rose Norris," she replied. "I work here."
"Oh, is that so, now? Well, I've been a cook here for more than ten years and have never seen you before. Now get out before I call the coppers on you."
Mary Rose went back out to Maple Lane but had no idea where to go from there. The middle-aged couple at her house, whom she assumed were her guardians or parents, would not likely welcome her home this early in the day. With no idea where she was supposed to be employed, she walked toward the center of town. There were no high-rise office buildings, only dingy, smoke-belching factories; no restaurants, coffee shops or department stores, only markets and peddler's wagons.
A man stepped out of a corner barber shop, and when he saw Mary Rose standing by the side of the road, his face reddened with anger.
"What are you doing out here?" he yelled. "I'm going to dock your pay."
The man must be her employer.
"Please, sir," she said with tears in her eyes. "I've been feeling quite sick. I—would you be kind enough to help me get to work?"
The man looked at her suspiciously.
"Sick or not, I'm not paying you for this morning. And if you're this late again, I'll give you the sack, for sure."
Mary Rose's boss led her to a ten-story building that housed a factory where women's blouses were made. Inside the overcrowded, poorly lit building were several hundred undernourished, overworked immigrants, most of whom were women and children. The women on the top floor were busily working the foot pedals on their sewing machines, while the children were doing an assortment of odd jobs.
The surly man gave Mary Rose a push toward an empty Singer, in front of which were placed pieces of cut fabric.
"Now, get to work!"
If Mary Rose had expected sympathy from her fellow employees, she was sadly disappointed. These women, intent on their own work, paid no attention to her. She picked up a sleeve and stared at it. What was she to do with it? Looking around, she observed that the woman on her right was sewing side seams, and the one on her left was sewing cuffs.
"Am I supposed to sew the underarm seam?" she asked the woman on her right.
"If you want to get paid, you'd better."
It took Mary Rose nearly an hour to become familiar with the industrial-grade sewing machine. All the time, her boss gave her glaring looks. Apparently, she was not working as fast as he thought she should. Eventually, she picked up speed, but she was never able to work at the feverish pace of her fellow seamstresses.
By noon, the warmth of the factory had become quite uncomfortable. Mary Rose began to perspire, and from the strong, unpleasant odor in the room, she knew she wasn't the only one. The afternoon wore on and the temperature continued to climb. Mary Rose's headache from the previous night came back. The pain in her head, coupled with the heat and the smell of sweat made her queasy.
The afternoon finally came to an end and evening arrived, but the women showed no sign of quitting. In fact, they didn't stop until nearly nine o'clock. Just before his employees left, the owner counted the completed pieces and paid each woman for her day's output.
When he counted Mary Rose's sleeves, he grumbled, "I'm making an excuse for you today because it's clear to me that you're sick. Tomorrow, however, you'd better be feeling right as rain, or else! I want you here first thing in the morning, and I expect to see a big improvement in your productivity."
"Yes, sir," Mary Rose replied.
He counted out several coins and then put a few back into his pocket, placing the rest of the change into Mary Rose's palm.
"Sick or not, I'll have to dock you for being late this morning. Remember, girl. Either be here on time tomorrow or else don't show up at all."
* * *
Mary Rose walked out of the building with Maureen McDonnell, the young woman who had been sitting on her right.
"I forgot how wretched working conditions were back in ...."
She stopped, remembering that her companion was native to this time period.
"How is it possible to live on such low wages?"
"Don't ask me," Maureen replied. "I don't get to keep this money. My husband waits at the door for me with his hand open. Then he's off to Murphy's where he spends my pay on drink."
"What? But it's your money."
"He's the man of the house. I can't go against him."
"I think that's ridiculous!"
"I once saved some of my wages to buy a new pair of shoes, and he let me have it. Gave me a black eye and busted my lip. So now I don't say a word; I just give him my earnings. It's a small price to pay to keep him from beating me."
When they came to the corner of Maple and Elm, Maureen bade her companion goodnight and walked off in the opposite direction. Mary Rose returned home where the middle-aged woman had dinner waiting for her. It wasn't much, a simple stew, but it was the only thing Mary Rose had eaten all day.
"Thank you," she told the woman when she was finished. "I think I'll take a bath and then go to bed. I'm exhausted."
The woman looked at Mary Rose as though she'd gone mad.
"A bath in the middle of the week? Are you daft, girl? And what's this about going to bed when there's laundry and mending to be done? Who do you think you are, Mrs. Astor?"
* * *
Mary Rose woke early the next morning, and after a quick, unappetizing breakfast, she headed for the factory. She walked quickly, not wanting to be late and risk losing her job. Breathless from taking the stairs two at a time, the young woman from the future ran to her sewing machine and immediately started working. The boss arrived a few moments later.
"That's what I like to see," he said. "Keep up the good work."
The morning went by slowly. Mary Rose soon felt a nagging ache in the muscles of her shoulders and arms. And, as on the previous day, the heat began to rise. The other women seemed unaffected by the harsh working conditions, but then they had probably grown accustomed to them.
I'd give anything for a nice, cold glass of iced tea or a can of Coke right now, she thought.
With this simple wish, came a new-found understanding. There would be a good many things about her own time that Mary Rose would miss: modern conveniences such as air conditioning, central heating and indoor plumbing among them. While she might be able to make the transition from electric lights to candles and gaslight, she would miss her refrigerator, washing machine and dryer. Also, medical care in the past was quite primitive; people died from illnesses that could easily be cured in her time. Then there was her job: grueling labor in a sweatshop as opposed to being a tour guide at the Van Dyne House.
The boss looked at his pocket watch and announced, "All right, ladies, you can have fifteen minutes for lunch."
Most of the women took day-old bread, chunks of cheese or pieces of fruit out of their pockets or purses and hungrily began to consume them. Mary Rose, who had not brought anything to eat with her and who really had no appetite in the heat, decided she would prefer a few minutes of fresh air to sharing a stale scone with Maureen. She ran down the stairs, eager to escape the oppressive heat of the building. Outside, the smell of sewage, garbage and animal waste assaulted her, but at least there was a cool breeze that blew past her sweating brow.
She had no watch on her wrist, so there was no way she could keep track of her precious fifteen minutes of freedom.
"Maybe if I run, I'll have enough time to get a cold drink from the well in the park."
She picked up her long skirt and darted across the street. As she ran, trying to dodge both human and animal excrement, an explosion rocked the ground beneath her, and Mary Rose fell forward onto the grass. Dazed, she rolled over and looked back at the factory.
Shattered glass rained down from the broken windows on the tenth story, the floor on which she worked. Terrified women and children ran to the windows, chased by bright orange and red flames. As Mary Rose watched in horror, burning bodies leaped from the factory and fell to the ground with a deadly thud.
The dazed young woman, who had rushed to the scene to see if she could help, screamed when she saw Maureen McDonnell's charred and broken form lying on the pavement. Her beautiful red hair had been burned from her head, and her neck had been broken in the fall. Soot, burned flesh and blood stained her young face, and her green eyes were open as if staring up at the flames that were shooting out of the tenth-story windows.
A wave of nausea washed over Mary Rose, and she ran back toward the park and vomited in the bushes. Tears fell down her face as she thought about the pretty Irish girl who had worked twelve hours a day, only to give her money to her abusive husband.
What a terrible end for such a sweet person! she thought, remembering how Maureen had offered to share her scant lunch.
In the midst of tragedy and death, Mary Rose imagined what her life, here in the past, would be like. As a woman, she would have few benefits or opportunities and would not even be allowed to vote for another decade. She had looked at the past through rose-colored glasses, seeing only romantic images and blinding herself to reality.
Why have I been so blind to all the advantages of my own time?
Eventually, Mary Rose wiped her tears away and turned to go. As she walked through the park in the direction of her house, she passed the wishing well. A bucket and several dippers had been provided for thirsty park patrons. Unmindful of the unsanitary conditions, she took a long, cool drink from the dipper. Then she reached into her pocket for the handful of coins she had earned at the shirt factory the previous day.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her hands were clasped together.
"Please, oh please!" she prayed. "Let me go back to my own time."
Moments after the coins splashed into the water, Mary Rose heard a vaguely familiar voice cry out.
"Yo! Wuz up?"
Even the string of profanities that subsequently came out of the young man's mouth was a welcome sound, for it meant that she was home.
This story was inspired by the Triangle Factory Fire. The image at the top of the page came from an excellent website with information on the fire (created by Cornell University).
Although we both love it in Massachusetts, Salem and I sometimes miss the good old days when we used to fly above England on a broomstick.
