Free Flower by Irene N.Watts

embroidered handkerchief. She sits on the other side,between Mr. Don Mason and Mr. Andrew Norman, who thinks he’s grander than the other boarders. He works in a bank, where he wears a black suit, with a gold watch and chain on his waistcoat.
    Mr. Mason is a driver for Stock’s Bread. Stock’s delivers all over the city in smart black horse-drawn carriages. I wonder if Mr. Mason guesses that Miss Alice often serves day-old bread to the boarders for supper. She showed me how to plunge the loaf in cold water, then squeeze it out and put it in a baking tin and bake it again in a hot oven.
    Every time I bring the basket of warm bread to the table, Mrs. Dunn repeats the exact same words: “Ah, fresh baking. How Mr. Dunn used to enjoy a good fresh loaf.” One night I swear I saw Mr. Mason turn to Mrs. Pratt and wink. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he asks her to go and hear him play at one of the summer band concerts. He’s a trumpeter for the Peterborough City Band.
    Because of the storm giving her a migraine, I carry Mrs. Dunn’s supper upstairs to her tonight.
    After Miss Alice finishes saying grace, I place the big platter of cold glazed ham in front of her to serve. She carves thick slices, giving more to the gentlemen than the ladies. I pass the plates round, then put dishes of potato salad and jellied salad in the center of the table.
    Miss Alice serves up my dinner before she leaves the kitchen, deciding what I’m to eat. My plate is kept warmfor me on the oven rack, or, on a hot night, cool in the larder. After I’ve brought in the pudding–dessert, as it’s called in Canada–I clear away the dirty plates and cutlery and put them to soak before I sit down to my own supper in the kitchen. Sometimes I’m almost too tired to eat, knowing I’ve still got all the dishes to wash and wipe, the kitchen to sweep and mop, and the breakfast table to set. Most nights there are boots to brush and polish.
    I refill the water glasses, holding the heavy pitcher with both hands so as not to spill a drop.
    Mr. Norman smiles toothily at Miss Alice, who sits opposite. “A delicious repast, madam, perfect for such a sultry evening.”
    As I go about my duties, the boarders are full of stories about the storm. Mr. Mason says he’d heard that a horse left sheltering under a tree was electrocuted and one of the newly put in telephone poles on our own street, Water Street, was struck. Minnie Pratt gives a little scream and Mr. Mason pats her hand to calm her. She’s what Miss Dodds would call high-strung. Mr. Bell says one of his customers told him that many people took shelter in basements and closets.
    “For once I was glad the alteration hands work below the main floor at Turnbull’s,” Miss Bartley says. “I don’t mind admitting we were all afraid.”
    “Almost an inch of rain fell today,” Mr. Mason says. “That must be some kind of record. I had a real jobtrying to settle my horse down. I was late with my deliveries, I’m afraid.” He always has something of interest to contribute.
    “We are ready for dessert, girl. What are you waiting for?” Miss Alice reminds me sharply. “Clear the plates and bring in the pies.” I’d been standing there, listening to all of them, longing to join in and tell how I’d run away from the black clouds, my boots clattering on the wooden boardwalk … about how the rain drummed on the roof of my little room and sounded louder than thunder. I’d quite forgotten my responsibilities.
    My chores done, I’m free to go to bed. Too tired to sleep, I stand staring out into the darkness. The howling of the wind reaches into the corners of the attic; black rain streams endlessly down the glass.
Am I the only person in the world still awake?



Thief

    I ’m suddenly wide-awake. I’ve been dreaming of the girl again. The rain on my window is as loud as hailstones, and peals of thunder follow a flash of lightning that brightens the whole room. I love looking out at a storm. The