The Reverend was still talking to Nan. “I will share with the children a little of how these affairs are run, and how the poor are exploited. And then they can see for themselves. How people suffer. The lengths they will go to survive.” He folded his hands on the table. “Might I hope for your consent?”
“I don't know, I'm sure.” Nan smoothed her apron. “I shall have to think about it. But tonight, there is another matter I hoped to discuss with you.”
“Of course. You must think about it.” Reverend Hampton tucked his hands deep into his sleeves and sat back in his chair. “What is on your mind?”
Nan pursed her lips. She studied Elsie across the table, and then she suddenly said, “Clear the supper things.”
“But
â
”
“No ands, ifs or buts, miss.” Nan crossed her arms. “Just get on with it.”
Elsie cleared the table and put their dishes in the enamel bowl, pouring hot water from the kettle over them. Nan made more tea and brought the pot to the table as she told her visitor, “I find myself in need of your advice.”
“Of course.” He leaned toward her. “You have my ear.”
Why would anyone want his ear? Elsie stifled a giggle.
Nan frowned at her. “Elsie. Take that dog around the block.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“I just thought⦔
“No more of your thoughts. It's action I want,” said her grandmother. “That dog has hardly stirred all day. Off with you both while I have a word with our friend.”
When Elsie slapped her leg and clicked her tongue, Dog Bob didn't budge. “Come on, Dog Bob. Let's go out.” He blinked at her once, then closed his eyes.
She hauled him from under the table and dragged him toward the door. Outside, she knelt down beside him and pulled his head into her arms. “It's okay. I'll take care of you. Just like I did the other day.”
At last he followed her down the path. But slowly, instead of running ahead as usual.
Elsie was headed along the street to Bryant Park with Dog Bob at her heels when she had another idea. Lying was bad. Stealing was bad. Being a poor sport was bad. Eavesdropping was bad too, Elsie knew. But what was it she'd once heard the Reverend say?
Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures
?
Elsie couldn't imagine feeling much more desperate than this.
She crept back to the garage and sidled along to the grimy window that looked into the room where she'd left Nan and the Reverend. She stood with her back to the wall and listened to the hum of voices inside. Nan and the Reverend talked for a while. She heard a chair scraping across the floor. Then silence.
Elsie stood on tiptoes to peer through the murky glass. The Reverend was alone at the table now, his hands resting on his Bible. He looked up as Nan came back into the room.
Elsie darted back so she would not be seen. The grass here was so long, and damp from the afternoon rain, that it tickled the skin between her boots and the hems of her pants.
When she peeked inside again, Nan was sitting across the table from the Reverend again. And between them, in the middle of the table, sat the envelope. They both looked at it as Nan spoke. Then Reverend Hampton picked it up. He studied the writing on the outside, turning it over and over before he put it down.
Elsie held her breath. She waited for someone to open it. To take out the letter and read it. But they just sat, looking at the envelope and talking in voices so low that Elsie couldn't hear a word.
She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Her legs were cold. What was in that letter? At this rate, she'd never find out.
She moved out of her hiding spot and went to fetch Dog Bob, who was snuffling under the rhododendron bushes near the Tipsons' house. While he sniffed around the mailbox and piddled against the post, Elsie studied the house. Lights were on in two rooms. In her house. What would happen if she marched up those steps, knocked on the door and asked if Jimmy knew anything about the letter? She wouldn't put it past him to have stuck his nose into anything he found in the mailbox, which both families shared.
She had been waiting forever to find out where her father was and what he had been doing since he left them. To learn if her mother was safe and sound in New Westminster. She didn't give a hoot about Mother's friend. Daisy Newman could be dead, for all she cared. But if she had died, Mother would be home by now.
Wouldn't she?
Elsie flipped up the mailbox lid. It slapped back down. She flipped it up again. And down it came. Up
slap
. Up
slap
. Up
slap
up
slap
up
slap
.
She thought she saw a curtain twitch, so she ducked back under the dripping bushes.
Dog Bob whimpered at her feet; he wanted to get back to his safe hiding spot under the table where Nan and the Reverend were talking about the secret letter. “Hush. Just a minute,” Elsie told him. “I'm thinking.” She yanked her hat down so she could hardly see past the brim.
Jimmy was such a sneak, he wouldn't tell her anything. What she had to do was go home and demand that Nan tell her who the letter was from and what it said. She didn't care if it was adult business. Or if the Reverend was there and you were supposed to behave in front of company.
She was sick of secrets.
Elsie stepped out of her hiding place and tipped her head back. She didn't care who saw her. Jimmy Tipson knew what she'd do if he dared show his face.
She lifted the lid of the mailbox one last time. This time, instead of letting it drop on its own, she slammed it so hard the post shook.
She turned her back on the mailbox and the house and ran back to the garage, with Dog Bob trotting ahead. Just as she took hold of the handle of the garage door, it opened. “There you are. We have good news,” said the Reverend. “I think you'll be pleased.”
“What is it? What's the good news?” asked Elsie.
But before the Reverend could answer, Nan's voice came from behind him. “Is the child back? About time.”
As the Reverend stepped aside to let Dog Bob pass, he smiled down at Elsie. “Your grandmother has agreed that you may visit the dance marathon.”
“Just once, mind,” came Nan's voice.
“Perhaps you will let your friend know that he is welcome too, if his mother will allow it. We will all go together.” Reverend Hampton stood at the table with one hand on the back of a chair. “That's what we agreed, is it not?”
Nan cleared the cups and saucers from the table. “I said she can go. So she may.” She dumped the tea leaves from the pot into the bucket. “Whatever arrangements you make will suit, I'm sure.” She joined the Reverend at the door. “And thank you for your counsel about the other matter. You have given me a lot of think about. Now. I must get this child to bed.”
It wasn't like Nan to talk so much. But as she finished tidying up their supper things and hurried Elsie to bed, she nattered on about what a good man the Reverend was, how wise his advice, how he agreed with so many of her views. How she would trust him with her life. With Elsie's too. And if he thought Elsie should see for herself what went on at the dance marathons⦠“It took some persuading, I must say,” she told Elsie as she tucked her in. “I don't like to change my mind. A sign of weakness I can't abide. But this issue is important to him. You can go and find out what it's all about. But there's no need to be bringing stories home, you hear?”
Elsie nodded.
“And don't you worry about the price of admission. The Reverend offered. But we can't be having that. Charity, we don't need. I will provide the admission fee.”
“What about Scoop?”
Nan sighed. “And for him. Even if that family is better off than we ever will be, I'll make sure he has what he needs. I don't like any of this. You be clear on that,” she told Elsie. “But the Reverend has given me his advice. And I will take his opinion on this.”
It wasn't until Nan had gone, and she was warm in bed with Baby in her arms, that Elsie remembered the letter. And her plans to make Nan tell her the truth of what was in the envelope.
It had not been on the table when she came home from her walk with Dog Bob. Where had her grandmother hidden it this time?
E
lsie squinted along the dark hall as Reverend Hampton led the way into Taylor's Clothing factory. They had paid at the door, coins Nan had slipped into Elsie's hands as they left the house with the reminder that, although she had given permission for this visit, she wanted to hear nothing of it when Elsie got home.
“Have you brought your notebook?” she asked Scoop.
“Course I have,” he whispered. “No reporter goes anywhere without his notebook.”
In the light of the lone bulb hanging overhead, Elsie could hardly read the posters that hung in tatters from the brick walls. Somewhere nearby, she could hear dripping water. She almost tripped when something scuttled past her feet.
The long, dark hallway opened up into a big room with a high ceiling. Steel beams ran along the roof. A skylight overhead was cloudy with dust and cobwebs.
Around the walls ran rows and rows of seats, starting at floor level and rising up toward the back of the cavernous room. And in the middle was the dance floor, where couples shuffled around as a gramophone crackled in the background.
The place smelled damp and stale. There was no glittering ball sending showers of light down onto the dancers. None of them wore anything like the fancy clothes or glittery jewels of the couple on the poster outside.
“This way. We must let others pass.” The Reverend nudged Elsie toward the bleachers, where Scoop had already settled on a seat halfway up. His arms were clasped around his bony knees. He leaned forward, staring down at the dance floor.
Elsie had expected the pretty ballroom dancing she'd seen at the New Year's party thrown by Ruth Cohen's parents in
1929
. But here there were no long leaps across the dance floor. No flying skirts of the women's gowns, dark flickering tails of the men's dinner jackets or winking shine of their black patent shoes.
She had expected a band with shiny brass instruments, the rise and dip of violin bows, a man or woman crooning into a microphone. Here, the dancers shuffled around as if they were sleepwalking, holding on to each other. They seemed to pay no attention to the gramophone playing in the background.
“The sign said they would dance for thirty days,” Scoop said. “Is that why they are so tired?”
“They have been dancing for more than a week,” said the Reverend in a low voice. “Their suffering is only just beginning.”
“Do they dance the whole time?” asked Elsie. “Without ever stopping?”
“They are permitted ten minutes sleep each hour. And a five-minute food break every two hours,” said Reverend Hampton as he arranged his black coat around him.
“What about going to theâ¦?” Scoop started to ask.
“Where do they sleep?” asked Elsie quickly. It didn't feel right talking about bathrooms with a reverend.
“On cots backstage, I believe,” he said.
Just like at home, thought Elsie, as she studied the long flowered curtain that hung behind the dance floor. It didn't come all the way down to the ground, and she could see feet moving back and forth in the darkness behind. White feet in white shoes and stockings. Nurses' legs. She remembered them from visiting Nan in hospital when she had pleurisy one winter. “Are sick people back there?” she asked.
“Those that weren't sick with hunger when they started may well be by the time they have finished.” The Reverend's voice was hard and cold. He shifted on the bench. “I believe the gentleman who organized this event is very proud of the medical staff he has on hand. Though to use the word
gentleman
is very generous.”
“The dancers here are luckier than some,” came a voice from behind.
The young man who leaned forward between Elsie and the Reverend wore a checkered cap much like Uncle Dannell's. He was thin and blond, with a bristly mustache and very blue eyes. “You know any of them folks?” He pointed to the dance floor with a pencil, then tucked it behind his ear.
Just like Scoop! “Are you a newspaperman too?” Elsie asked.
“James Forrest. Staff reporter with the
Columbian
.”
“He's a reporter!” said Elsie.
“I heard,” said Scoop. “Not the
Vancouver Sun
?”
“I see you know your papers.” Mr. Forrest pushed his cap back and scratched his forehead with his pencil. “The
Columbian
's been with us the past thirty years, and, with any luck, will edge out that other rag sooner than later.”
“My friend is going to be a newspaperman,” Elsie told Mr. Forrest quickly, before Scoop could start a debate about which was the best paper. “Just like⦠I forget. Who's that famous reporter, Scoop?”
“Walter Winchell.”
“We're here for research,” she told the reporter. The real one.
“For an in-depth piece about this here dance marathon,” said Scoop. “I have to be sure of my facts. You know how it is.”
The
Columbian
reporter shuffled across two empty seats and shifted down one row to sit next to them. “It's never too early to start in this business,” said Mr. Forrest. “How old are you, young man?”
The Reverend had been dividing his attention between the dance floor below and the conversation between Elsie and Scoop and the reporter. Now he said to Mr. Forrest, “I brought these children here to show them that this is not about glamour and fame. Or even wealth.”
Mr. Forrest nodded. “I couldn't agree more. But it's a hard message to sell.”
“That may well be,” said Reverend Hampton. “Have you studied the phenomenon long?”