Free No Job for a Lady by Carol McCleary Page A

and still keep her respect.
    “I guess when my father died—”
    “Oh, Nellie, I’m so sorry.” She cups my hands. “I know how horrible that is. My mother died when I was three, so I have just a vague memory of her. However, everyone, especially my dad, says I’m a spitting image of her. I don’t know what I would do without my father. He’s everything to me. He’s my life. When did your father die?”
    “A long time ago. When I was six.” I look down at my hands for a moment. “We were very close. To this day, I miss him terribly. Anyway, because of a horrible stepfather, whom, I am glad to say, my mother divorced—”
    “Divorced! Your mother got divorced?” Gertrude looks at me not in surprise, but with more of an awed expression. “What a strong woman she must be. Good for her. I wish there were more women like your mother. So many wives are abused by men. It’s terrible. So, what happened next?”
    “Well, because of greedy people, my mother and siblings were left in a bad state of finances and I had no choice but to…” Once again I pause, deciding whether to tell her the truth or not—not because I don’t trust her; it’s just that I hate exposing this part of my life. I decide on the truth. “… to leave school and work as a factory girl to help put bread on the table. One day while waiting in line, I read a newspaper article that criticized women who earned their daily bread. This man had the gall to say women are abnormal—a man-woman if we worked in a man’s field. Mind you! Utterly ridiculous.”
    “Quite so! The nerve of the man! I’m sorry, please continue.”
    “Well, every girl I spoke to was angered, but no one would or could say anything, for fear of losing her job. Forget that we worked just as hard as the men and never got a raise in pay, or, heaven forbid, promoted. We worked for ten cents an hour, while the men received twice that amount. All I could remember was my father constantly telling me that I should always stand up for myself. ‘Men are not superior,’ he’d say, ‘even though they’d like you to think so. You are an equal, and never forget it. Do whatever you desire. Fight for your rights. You have only yourself to blame if you don’t. And most important, remember there is nothing you can’t do.’ So, I sent the editor my opinion. Surprisingly, he not only appreciated my view; he offered me a job.”
    “Hurrah for you! Quite cheeky, I must say.” She giggles, and that gets me laughing.
    When we finally stop the merriment, her expression turns concerned. “Unfortunately, that columnist voices the opinion of most of the men on the planet. As my own father says, nothing will change unless you fight back. Good for you, Nellie. I, too, feel very strongly about that. So, tell me, you must fare quite well at reporting. I imagine newspapers trust only their finest reporters with foreign assignments.”
    I dodge the question, trying to avoid telling her I’m living a lie. “Fine, at first, despite the fact that my editor said my grammar and spelling are a bit rocky.”
    “Oh my word! You, too?” Gertrude laughs. “What a delight to hear someone else is a poor speller. My poor stepmum is always trying to correct my spelling and constantly tells me I will get nowhere in life if I don’t learn how to spell properly.”
    “Well, he also told me my writing comes from the heart and I speak the truth, which is what he wanted, or so I believed, and I decided to make my sword my pen. However, when I wrote a story about the conditions of factory workers at local plants, I caused quite a stir. My editor was flat out told, by particular businessmen, that the paper would lose advertising if I continued to write about workers’ conditions—especially those of women. The next thing I knew, I was attending silver-plate tea parties and weddings. So much for writing about the truth!”
    “How ghastly! I have to attend several each year and dread them.”
    I bite the