Clara Callan Read Free

boot, which drew my eye as surely as the bulging goitre in old Miss Fowley’s throat. Father saw some of this and afterwards scolded me. I think I went to bed without supper and I probably sulked for days. What an awful child I was! Yet Marion forgave me; she always forgives me. From time to time, this afternoon, I noticed her smiling at me over her magazine. Mr. Webb was at the station with his car, but I told him I preferred to walk. It had stopped raining by then. No offence was taken.
    They are used to my ways. And so I walked home on this damp grey evening. Wet leaves underfoot and darkness seeping into the sky through the bare branches of the trees. Winter will soon be upon us. My neighbours already at their suppers behind lighted kitchen windows. Felt a little melancholy remembering other Saturday evenings when I would have our supper on the stove, waiting for the sound of Father’s car in the driveway, bringing Nora up from the station. Certainly Nora would never have walked. Waiting in the kitchen for her breathless entrance. Another tale of some adventure in acting class or the charms of a new beau. Father already frowning at this commotion as he hung up his coat in the hallway. It’s nearly seven months now, and I thought I was getting used to Father being gone,yet tonight as I walked along Church Street, I felt again the terrible finality of his absence.
    Then I was very nearly knocked over by Clayton Tunney who came charging out of the darkness at the corner of Broad Street. It was startling, to say the least, and I was cross with him.
    “Clayton,” I said. “For goodness’ sake, watch where you’re going!”
    “Sorry, Miss Callan. I was over at the Martins’, listening to their radio with Donny, and now I’m late for supper and Ma’s going to skin me alive.”
    And off he went again, that small nervous figure racing along Church Street. Poor Clayton! Always in a hurry and always late. Without fail, the last one into class after recess.
Tatham House
138 East 38th Street
New York
November 10, 1934
    Dear Clara,
    Well, I made it, and I am now at the above address. Tatham House is an apartment hotel for self-supporting women (I hope to become one soon). It’s very clean, well maintained and reasonably priced. It’s also quite convenient. I stayed with Jack and Doris Halpern for a few days and then I found this place. The Halperns live “uptown” dozens of blocks away, but the subway can get you around the city so fast that you hardly notice distances. New York is not that hard to navigate once you get the hang of it. All the streets run east and west while the avenues go north and south and they are all numbered with a few exceptions like Park and Madison and Lexington. But brother, is it noisy! The taxi drivers are always honking their horns, and you really have to be careful crossing the street. Everyone seems to be in such a blasted hurry (I thought Toronto was bad). There are so many peopleout on the streets at all hours and I have to say, Clara, that I’ve never seen so many handsome men, though
so many of them are swarthy. I guess they must be Italian or Greek or maybe Jewish. Awfully good-looking though. You also see a lot of coloured people down here.
    Now about work! On Thursday, Jack took me to Benjamin, Hecker and Freed (an advertising agency) and introduced me to some people, including this writer Evelyn Dowling. How can I describe Evelyn? She reminds me of that song we used to sing when we were kids.
I’m a little teapot
Short and stout
Here is my handle
Here is my spout!
    Remember that? She’s only about five feet tall and nearly as wide and she has this big head of reddish hair. Wears beautifully cut tailored suits and expensive-looking shoes. She’s not going to win any beauty contests, but she’s very funny and obviously very successful. Smokes like the dickens. Just one Camel after another and her fingers are yellow with nicotine. Anyway, I did a voice test (several actually),