Bridget (The Bridget Series) (3 page)

The Rev. Caldwell
was pushing for a formal adoption. Bridget didn’t think Pa would go for it. After all, he never wanted her in the first place.

Bridget was shocked when Pa agreed. Oddly, she also was surprised to find herself pleased. They would be a formal, legal family. The circuit judge would be in town on Wednesday and there would be a hearing in the church, which is where the judge held court when he came to town once a month.

Everybody got dressed in their Sunday best for the big occasion.

“You look nice, Bridget.”

“Thanks, mother. So do you.”

Bridget was glad she still fit into the crème colored dress that her mother had made for her last Easter. Pa was wearing his one good suit and her mother had on her special blue dress with a pattern of small flowers. The dress was finished off with a lace collar and cuffs. Bridget felt extra special when she noticed that her mother took time putting up her hair, and was careful when she put on her bonnet.

When they arrived at the church Rev. Caldwell said he would wait in his office and they should sit in the front pew. A man in a black suit came in and introduced himself as Judge Thomas Edmond. He said the woman with him was his secretary, and she would be taking notes. There were two chairs in front of them, one for Judge Edmond and the other for his secretary, Mary.

Judge Edmond first asked Pa and Bridget’s Mother if it was their intent to legally adopt Bridget. Each answered ‘yes’ and then the judge asked if they understood what that meant. Again, each answered ‘yes’. Then Judge Edmond asked Bridget if she had any questions.

“Yes, sir, I do. What ever happened to my parents? The ones I had when I was born. One day they were there and then they were gone.”

The judge seemed sincerely distressed at the question. “Why, child your parents died of the consumption. They passed within four days of each other. You weren’t allowed near for fear you’d catch it, too. Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“No, sir. Nobody ever told me anything.”

Looking at the Hansens the judge asked, “What information were you given about her background?”

“None, sir,” replied Pa. “Just that she was from the Orphan Train.”

“Rev. Caldwell arranged everything,” Bridget’s Mother added.

The judge leaned forward, took off his glasses, wiped them and then put them back on. “Mary, ask Rev. Caldwell to come in.” The judge’s secretary got up and first knocked on the minister’s office door. Then she opened it and told Rev. Caldwell that the judge wanted him to come into the hearing.

The minister sat down and smiled at the Hansens. Then he looked at Bridget and gave her a wink. Judge Edmond asked what information he had been given about Bridget. “None, sir. Just that she was available. I signed the sponsorship papers and gave her to the Hansens.”

“Very well,” Judge Edmond nodded and said he was sorry that they were never given the paperwork. He tried to explain that there were so many on the Orphan Train that sometimes mistakes happen. Then he started to say something. You sensed he was going to say ‘that because Bridget was the last child’, but he glanced at Bridget, caught himself, knowing that would make Bridget feel bad.

Instead, he wanted to know if anyone wanted him to repeat the adoption questions. When nobody did the judge smiled and announced, “Congratulations, you are a family. You are mother, father and daughter. You are all a Hansen.”

Rev. Caldwell jumped up shouting “Great!” Bridget’s Mother stood up and gave her official daughter a hug. Her Pa shook the judge’s hand. “How about if we go get some ice cream. My treat,” offered Rev. Caldwell. “Judge Edmond will you and Mary join us? We’d love to have you.”

The judge declined because he had to travel to the next town, 10 miles away, where somebody in jail needed to be sentenced. Bridget wondered what it would be like to be a judge’s secretary. It seemed very important and the lady was wearing store bought clothes.

Later, Bridget learned that Mary was also the judge’s wife. Bridget was in awe.

T
HE news brought screams of
disbelief. Bridget’s Mother and her Pa would allow her to take the test. The most important test in Bridget’s young life. Bridget had been accepted as a scholarship applicant. She would be permitted to test for admittance into a program that trained girls to become typewriters or typewriting girls, as they were called. Men were amazed at how more efficiently their offices could be run using a typewriter. For women, it was a job ticket out of the sweat shop factory, or the hard work of a farm.

Sixteen-year-old Bridget was ecstatic at the thought of being able to join that elite group of women. She remembered the judge’s secretary and wondered if it was really possible that someday she could have an important job like that. She also wondered if someday she would also be married.

The test was two weeks away. A typing test. The three with the top scores would not only receive full tuition, but room and board at the Greenview Manor for Young Women. Usually the fee for just the room and board was $1.89 a month, so to receive such a scholarship would be an enormous help. Even more exciting was the news that the business offices who were sponsoring the scholarships would then hire the girls. One each at each office; the railroad, the bank and the doctor’s office.

Bridget knew she’d have to do well on the test. That she had never actually seen a real typewriter didn’t discourage her. She had seen pictures of typewriters. Painstakingly Bridget had used a nickel to trace four rows of circles on a piece of paper. Carefully, she printed a letter or number on each circle making sure they were in the same order they appear on a typewriter.

Everyday Bridget practiced on her paper typewriter. With her eyes closed, or even in the dark, she knew where the keys were located. Now all she had to do was prove she could hit the right keys on a metal machine whose keys went up and down.

The school was
25 miles away in Canyonville. That meant Bridget would have to take the train. The town school would pay for her fare. Luckily, there was a return train that night, so Bridget and the other contestants from her area and their teacher chaperone wouldn’t have to spend the night or ride the stagecoach.

The morning train left before sun up. Bridget was surprised that both her parents wanted to take her to the station. Bridget’s Mother had made her a big sandwich and included an apple for her day in the big city. She also insisted that Bridget drink some milk and eat an egg before starting out.

When they arrived at the station her mother got out of the buckboard and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m very proud of you. You’ll do well.”

“Girl,” Bridget heard her Pa call. Bridget had gotten used to him sometimes calling her ‘Girl’ rather than by her name. Once, she caught herself calling him ‘Mr. Hansen.’

“Here.” Her Pa reached into his pocket and thrust something towards her. It was a penny. “So you can have some ice cream.”

“Thank you, Pa.” He lowered his head and backed away, as if afraid of too much intimacy.

Everyone was too scared to do much talking on the train ride. And, after all, we are all competitors, Bridget thought. You didn’t want to make a friend of somebody you wanted to beat. Besides, the noise from the train made it almost impossible to talk, so all the better.

Bridget’s thoughts drifted back to the last time she was on a train—The Orphan Train.

Now she was on a train to the big city in hopes of winning a scholarship. She smiled to herself. The street kids she lived with in New York wouldn’t believe it. At first she wondered about them, but as time passed her memories faded. She needed to concentrate on the future, rather than thinking about the past.

Except … except … for her parents. The ones she had when she was born. Their names had been Shamus and Erin. She barely remembered them and that somehow made her feel guilty. The train belched and jerked Bridget from her thoughts.

Bridget entered the
testing room and froze. The typewriters were big, black, imposing, almost threatening. “Take a seat at any typewriter,” instructed the teacher who didn’t even offer a crack of a smile. “We’ll begin in a minute.”

About fifteen giddy girls scrambled for a machine. A terrified Bridget sat down at the nearest metal contraption and knew that her paper typewriter was no match for the real thing. She worried how her parents, Rev. Caldwell and Miss Frances would react hearing that she had failed. Bridget felt sick, but grabbed the edge of her desk and tried to steady her mind.

“Everyone be seated and pay attention,” repeated the instructor who possessed a permanent stern expression. Bridget couldn’t recall having ever sean a teacher with such a dour face. With her hair in a tight bun, Miss Hester ruled the room. “For those of you who are accepted, you will be taught the proper way to become a typewriter and take shorthand. You should know that typewriting girls and telegraphers can take down information at rates up to 130 words per minute, whereas a writer with a pen is limited to a maximum of 30 words per minute which is the speed record. Of course, we would not expect any of you to equal that.”

Bridge wondered if anyone ever passed the test.

“Notice that the machines have flowers printed on the casing,” continued Miss Hester. “That is to make the machines more comfortable for women to use.” Bridget had been too nervous to notice the flower designs. To her the black E. Remington & Sons machines looked powerful and intimidating.

“Upon successful completion of our training, we will place you in a proper position. We are testing you today to see which of you are capable of learning the machine. Three will even be awarded a scholarship. For those of you who do not pass our test, do not be downhearted. Becoming a typewriter takes exceptional skill. Not everyone is able to master the complicated machine. For those of you who do not pass, know that there are many other opportunities out there in the world for you.”

Bridget couldn’t think of one.

T
HE two weeks between returning
home from taking the entrance test to the date when the scholarship winners would be announced seemed more like two years.

People stayed remarkably quiet. She expected some of the younger schoolboys to tease the way they did when they saw her practicing on her paper typewriter keyboard. Now, most of them would suddenly start to walk in a different direction or begin a game which involved running.

Bridget knew that the town folk feared she might fail and nobody knew how they’d handle that delicate situation. At home her Pa didn’t say one single word—nothing—about her having gone to the big town. Bridget’s Mother did ask if she was glad she went, but then fell uncomfortably silent after Bridget said the trip was fine.

If others weren’t asking questions, Bridget wasn’t volunteering much in the way of detail about her trip and test. She didn’t know what to say.

How do you admit that the test was hard. Or, that practicing on a paper typewriter keyboard wasn’t much help in knowing how to hit metal keys, then wait for the key to strike the paper, and then return to it’s resting place. If you struck a key before the previous letter had finished its trip from paper back to its proper place in the typewriter, the keys would jam. She remembered one of the girls started to cry because her keys kept getting hooked together.

At night when she was having trouble falling asleep Bridget wondered what she would do. Most girls had a husband lined up by the time they left school, but a few stayed at home. Her mother could use the help and company.

She couldn’t think of any boy that she wanted to marry. Bridget worried that there were no jobs for her in town. She didn’t sew well enough to work as a seamstress. If there was a good apple harvest maybe she could suggest that she help her mother bake a lot of apple pies. They could sell them at the market. Everybody loved those apple pies. The secret was that Bridget’s Mother would always put in extra cinnamon and sugar.

One thing Bridget knew was that the Hansens had taken her in when nobody else wanted her. They had been kind to her. She couldn’t continue to live there without somehow paying her way.