Hazel G

By Sandra Benns

It was the dirty thirties when Hazel was dropped off at the door of an orphanage.  She learned right then and there at the tender age of nine how to make lemonade from lemons.

After suffering a serious burn at her workhouse as a teenager, she receives plastic surgery from one of Toronto’s first plastic surgeons at East General Hospital. She goes on to discover her birth certificate that had been hidden away, and she accepts her First Nations status up at Manitoulin Island.

Hazel G was a war-time bride with stars in her eyes. She moved into her first real home at Eldon Avenue, just off Danforth Avenue in 1946. The reader finds her a few years later, a widow with four hungry stomachs to feed.

After burying two husbands, she reconnects with a Canadian Armed Forces colonel who brings an entirely new viewpoint into her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638296003

Sandra Benns

Sandra Benns started writing full-time after a career in education in Toronto, Canada. Currently, she is crafting her fifth novel, The Irish Nanny, and she explains, “Research is key. I’m up to my neck in all things Irish, and I couldn’t be happier. The Irish Nanny’s protagonist, Maureen O’Reilly, is an interesting and complex character, so my hours spent at the keyboard fly by as she veers from one situation and into another.” Sandra’s earlier books include: 7 Russell Hill Road 49 Parkwood Avenue Hazel G

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About the Author

Sandra Benns lives in Toronto, Canada and began her writing career full-time in 2019. Hazel G is the first book of a series, with The Delamere Boys following. The Delamere Boys is scheduled for an early 2021–2022 winter release date.

Sandra has also penned a trilogy within the last year. 7 Russell Hill Road and its sequel, 49 Parkwood Avenue were both released in 2021. The third book in this trilogy, The Irish Nanny, is scheduled for a 2021–2022 winter release date.

Sandra’s one-and-only non-fiction book, Anthology: Stories from Canadian Incarcerated Women does not have a release date set yet.

You can read Q&As and access the playlists for all her books on her website:

https://www.sandrabenns.com

Dedication

My Aunt Hazel played a pivotal role in my life from the very beginning. She, along with my mother who was her best friend, raised ten children, passing down the little party dresses, the good coats and shoes as their girls grew out of them to the next sister or cousin of that size.

Those were the days of dressing girl siblings all alike, and unfortunately for me, my size dictated that I wore the same dress, same color, same fashion, but different sizes, for at least four or five seasons (Conformity was key).

But that’s how these two remarkable women, Aunt Hazel and Mom, who grew up in the great depression, shared and took care of their children in a clever, albeit frugal, fashion.

Aunt Hazel was also my godmother. She was the most kind, thoughtful, gentle, witty yet resilient woman I have ever met. This delightful, charming woman, who always enjoyed a good lunch, left us peacefully on Christmas Day, 2020, in her ninety-fifth year.

Copyright Information ©

Sandra Benns 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Benns, Sandra

Hazel G

ISBN 9781638295990 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781638296003 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021920797

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Hazel and Frank’s daughters, Fran, Denise and Joyce, for allowing me to insert the gist of their parents’ very real love story into the novel.

And to Barbara, thank you for sharing your father’s story of when his ship, the HMCS Athabaskan was torpedoed, sending him into the icy waters of the English Channel during World War II.

Every year on 11 November, Canada’s Remembrance Day, I think of our dads, two teenaged Canadian sailors, and what great men they were.

Chapter One

Humble Beginnings

She was four months gone and he was no doctor. It all went wrong when the abor—

Sister Frances jumped up from her seat and put her hand in the social worker’s face. Stop right there! No need! Stop! This young girl is not to hear this!

She turned to the nine-year-old and said kindly, Now Hazel, please know how happy we are to have you here at The Children’s Home. You’re going to like it here. If you’ll take my hand, we’ll go to the kitchen, and you and I are going to sit down and have some milk and cookies. And then I can show you around, and we’ll get you settled in.

But I want to go home. I want my mother. What about my sisters?

I know. I know. As you can see, I’m an old lady, and I still miss my mother. Here, please take my hand. I want you to call me Sister Frances. I’m going to take very good care of you. Your sisters will be here soon. They’re coming here with the social worker right after school finishes. But meanwhile, I want you to know that I’m your new friend. You can tell me anything.

Hazel lowered her head, and as she stared at the well-worn wooden floor, her nine-year-old logic kicked in. She raised her head and stared into her new guardian’s kind face and negotiated like any smart nine-year-old would, Can I have more than one cookie?

"Yes, my child, today, and today only, you can have as many cookies as you like. And the question is may I have; not can I have. Now come along, we have some exploring to do."

As the one smaller hand slipped into the larger one, a friendship was formed that would last both of them for the rest of their lives.

***

Two hours later, after the social worker had delivered Hazel’s two older sisters to the orphanage, the eldest sister spoke up. But what about our father? He can still send us money so I can run the house. I’m fourteen now. And I can get a job. I want to stay at our house; I’m not going to live in an orphanage. I’m too old anyway. You’re going to send me out to work now. That’s what the social worker said. After you’re twelve years old here, you start an apprenticeship and you go out to work doing laundry or keep house for someone or nurse a sick person.

Sister Frances had her hands full with Hazel’s two older sisters. And it was true, twelve years old or grade eight was the cut-off for school in the orphanage, and she would have to find a home that would take them in to work to pay their room and board. Times were tough. It was 1933, and Toronto was in the middle of the depression years. It was tough on everyone, and all the orphanages were full of kids just like the three of them in front of her. Either the parent dropped them off with a note in their pocket, or, sadly, as in this case, the father only came home from the gold mines up north twice a year, and the mother had had a back-room abortion where she had bled to death.

What could the old nun do?

***

Hazel settled into her room upstairs that first night with three other nine-year-old girls. Her two older sisters were in another room with two other twelve-year-olds. She sat on the edge of her bed, and she smoothed down the supplied nightgown over her knees as her three well-established roommates grilled her from their position on the adjacent bed.

Are you sure you’re only nine? You seem to be a lot taller than us.

Are you an Indian? You look Indian around your eyes. Like a squaw, only younger.

What happened to your mother and father? Who dropped you off here?

Are you a good reader?

Yes, I’m nine. No, I’m not an Indian. My mother died, but I’ve got a new friend.

Who?

Sister Frances.

Oh. Yeah. Okay, so do you want to be friends with us?

At Hazel’s silent nod, the smallest of the three jumped up off the bed and ran to get a safety pin off the dresser. She came back and said, Okay Hazel, if you want to be our friend, you have to be our blood sister. Stick out your finger so I can prick you. And don’t cry.

You first.

The four nine-year-olds huddled together, and they all winced as each of them felt the prick of the safety pin on their middle digit.

Quick! Quick! Don’t get it on your nightgown! Here, rub it into mine! Quick!

***

As Hazel’s eyes closed with her blanket up over her ears, she smiled a little as she thought back to Sister Frances offering her the plate of cookies again and again. As for her roommates, that was a different story. They were nothing but little twerps, but she knew how to handle them. She felt a little bad about lying about not being an Indian, but really, she rationalized with herself, she was only half-Indian. She wasn’t going to start explaining anything with those three little upstarts. Her mother told her a time long ago that some people didn’t like Indians, and that she shouldn’t pay any attention to them. Her mother had also told her that she was smart and a leader.

The time had come to put that fact into practice. After all, she was going to be ten on her next birthday.

***

The days passed and sure enough, Hazel’s two big sisters were placed in one of the bigger workhouses just off of Eaton Avenue. As Sister Frances explained to them, it was God’s work that they could stay together. For room and board and 50 cents each per week, they would help in the kitchen, scrub the floors, do the laundry, along with nursing Mrs. White’s elderly mother and her husband, who had come home from the war with only one leg and chronic night terrors. Mrs. White had started taking in borders, and currently had two men, who paid their way with their veterans’ pension.

At the time, it seemed like a win-win situation, and Sister Frances was pleased as punch to get Hazel’s two older sisters settled so quickly. After all, they were all in the middle of the depression and men were working in labor jobs for 20 cents per day, so she was proud of her negotiations that bagged a solid fifty cents per week for each of the two sisters.

***

The weeks went on, and Sister Frances was happy to get the teacher’s report that Hazel was settling in nicely, and that she was a smart, eager student who was a pleaser, quite willing and able to help out with the younger students in the orphanage’s big classroom.

It wasn’t long before the nine-year-old orphan was getting special privileges such as sitting in with older girls in Sister Frances’ sewing class, operating a sewing machine and learning to sew aprons, leading up to housedresses that, in turn, the orphanage would sell at their Christmas bazaar.

***

"Since there are just the two of us today, Hazel, and we’re all caught up with our sewing, I would like to show you some pictures of a very famous dressmaker that also grew up in an orphanage, just like you and me. Her name is Coco Chanel, and she grew up in an orphanage called Aubazine, in the town of Saumur, France. She learned how to sew there, with the sisters, just like you and me. And she worked in the garden to grow vegetables, just like you and me. She’s pretty famous now, but where she lives in France, they have the same depression as we do in Toronto, so even for famous people, they’re having troubles too." Sister Frances flipped the old, well-worn pages of the October 1926 edition of Vogue, where Coco Chanel’s famous couture had claimed the front cover with the introduction of the little black dress.

After days of studying the photos and reading every word of the work of the famous hat and dress maker, Hazel began sketching forms of Chanel’s famous knit dresses and suits without collars and form-fitting skirts and ensembles of jackets and wide-legged trousers for women to wear. She started writing down all her questions regarding the stock patterns that the orphanage kept neatly hanging up in the sewing room. When Sister Frances could spare her a few minutes, Hazel would reach up for the canvas pattern pieces of sleeves, bodices, collars that were hanging in their respective sizes. She would lay them out on the big cutting table and ask Sister Frances to check her math so that she could make improvisations to copy from the old housedress pattern into a Coco Chanel outline.

One day Sister Frances motioned for Hazel to stay in class after the others had left. Hazel, she confided, I have some exciting news to tell you.

Yes?

It seems that we have an extra bit of canvas for pattern-making left over, and I’m thinking that you and I could draft out a Coco Chanel styled suit.

Hazel’s face was beaming as she dropped her pencil and wrapped her arms around the portly mentor in excitement. You mean a jacket, and a blouse, and a skirt? Really?

Really. It’s about time we updated our dressmaking patterns for the Christmas bazaar. And you’re just the girl to help us do it!

Sister Frances continued, Can you keep a secret? As Hazel nodded silently, she whispered, I’m going to show you something.

They walked all the way down the hall on the first floor and Sister Frances stopped in front of a window that led out to the back alley. She whispered, Watch.

She lifted her arm up to the window sash and opened the palm of her hand so that Frances could see. It was a key. With one finger over her mouth to hush any questions, she silently put the key back in place. As they walked back down the hallway, she whispered to Hazel, That’s the key to the sewing room. You have permission to go in there to work at any time, after supper or after your school work but you are not to share this secret with anyone else. Just pretend that you’re going to read in the library. And I mean no one is to know about this. Understood?

Hazel nodded silently, and smiled a little as she motioned with her one hand that she was buttoning her lip.

She tracked down Sister Frances one day to return the well-thumbed Vogue magazine back to her, and as she handed it back, she said in all earnestness, From now on, would you call me Hazel G instead of just plain old Hazel? Coco Chanel got rid of her birth name of Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel and made up a new name for herself, and look how famous she is. I should do that too.

From that day forward, Hazel Graves was known to all as Hazel G. It was the beginning of many, many years of designing and sewing women’s fashions, long after she had left the orphanage. It wasn’t long before the orphanage was getting orders ahead of time for their updated housedresses, right along with collarless jackets, matching skirts, and a blouse that matched the lining in the jacket. Sister Frances and Hazel pooled the new-found money to buy more fabric and trim for their ‘business.’

After the first few women’s wear sales that the orphanage had, they began to get orders from regular customers. Hazel was studying her mentor’s sales acumen throughout the process.

One afternoon, after standing beside Sister Frances admiring their handiwork, Hazel, somewhat timidly, broached the subject that had been hounding her for months.

I know that I’m not eleven yet, but I have to tell you that our fashions are missing an important element.

Sister Frances looked into her protégé’s earnest face and asked, What is it? What could possibly be missing from our fashions?

She took a deep breath, pushed passed her humbleness and said quietly, I don’t mean to sound like I know everything, but here’s what I think we need.

Well, spit it out. This is no time to be shy. We’re business partners, remember?

I think we need to put a label on our fashions, just like Coco Chanel does.

Sister Frances looked into her face, and said softly to encourage the youngster’s confidence, If, in fact, our designs are good enough to have a label, what name do you propose that we have on this label?

"Hazel G."

I’ll see what I can do, child.

***

Sister Frances wrote away to New York to order the Hazel G labels, and one month later, she asked Hazel to open a certain package that the postman had delivered. It was post-marked New York City.

The almost-eleven-year-old dress designer had trouble sleeping that night. Every time she would dose off, her grip on the half dozen labels in each hand would slacken and she found herself time and time again trying to gather them up in her fists. She finally realized that lining them all up under her pillow was a better alternative.

***

It was a hot, muggy August morning when Sister Frances set out for Eastern High School of Commerce. Her scrubbed and suitably dressed eleven-year-old charge was being mindful to slow her gait down to meet her portly guardian’s slow and measured way of walking.

We’re meeting with the principal today. His name is Mr. Keast, and he sounded very nice over the telephone. I explained to him that you had passed all the grade eight exams a year early, and I promised him that you would keep up with the rest of the class.

Don’t worry, I won’t let you down. And I’m taller than our thirteen-year-olds at home, so no one will pick on me.

Sister Frances looked over at the confident young girl and smiled. I have no doubt.

***

Hazel sat there in the principal’s office, watching Sister Frances talk to Mr. Keast like she had known him her whole life. It was like she was a different person. She smiled and nodded as he spoke, then used her hands a lot that made Mr. Keast lean back and laugh out loud.

Hazel had a few minutes sitting there quietly, observing their pleasantries, and she looked down quickly to check her posture, according to the Emily Post etiquette book that she had thumbed through many times in the library back at the orphanage. She had just experienced a big first in her life, and she was a little surprised but managed to pull it all off perfectly. As they had entered Mr. Keast’s big office, he shook Sister Frances’ hand, and then turned to her and stuck out his hand. She managed to reach out, all the while thinking that this was the first time in her life that she could remember being in such close contact with a man, let alone shaking his hand.

She sat there watching Sister Frances, and she thought she was acting kind of cute or something. She was putting her hand up to her mouth to cover her laughter and blinking her eyes a lot at Mr. Keast. She definitely thought that this was some sort of a party, and not the right approach to be taken as far as her whole future was concerned. Did Sister Frances think that her future was just a big joke?

As she watched Mr. Keast’s kind face crinkle up with the stories being told, she began to think that he was not only a kind man, but a handsome man as well. She felt her face flush a little with her very first crush.

She shook her head a little as she heard Sister Frances calling her name. She had found herself not wanting to listen to the two adults’ conversation. Five minutes earlier, Sister Frances had cheerily given Mr. Keast her full name, date of birth, but said that there was no valid birth certificate and no to the question whether the youngster was an Indian. Hazel knew better than to interrupt, but she knew this wasn’t the truth. Her mother was an Indian and so was she.

However, Sister Frances had steered the conversation away from the statistics and focused on Hazel G’s intellect and pleasing personality.

Upon hearing her name being called, Hazel stumbled a little as she got on topic, but she found herself confirming to Mr. Keast that yes, indeed, she had made her blouse and skirt all by herself.

Mr. Keast sat there, with a serious look on his face. Oh, I’m sorry, Hazel G, I didn’t realize that you were interested in dressmaking. You see, this school is for business students who want to be an accountant or go on to university. You may be better off in the long run if Sister Frances finds you an apprenticeship somewhere.

Hazel knew enough to set him straight. There was absolutely no way she was going to be turned down by this big beautiful high school. Actually, Mr. Keast, that’s why Sister Frances brought me here. It has nothing to do with my home economics talents. You see, Sister Frances and I have a dressmaking business, and we design and sell dresses to ladies. I have to learn accounting and other business subjects to be able to run the business in two years when I have to leave the orphanage. We even have our own label that we sew into all our designs. We ordered it from New York.

Sister Frances said, Yes, Mr. Keast. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I didn’t think that Hazel was not going to university. She is quite willing to take extra bookkeeping and typing classes to forge ahead and graduate early.

Mr. Keast leaned back in his big oak office chair and, not saying a word, just looked at them. All of a sudden, his two big hands slapped down on his desk. I have an idea. I’m going to leave this in the hands of our expert home economics teacher. If she decides that your sewing talents are above the grade nine standard, she will give you a credit so that you can skip her class and take extra bookkeeping and typing classes in lieu of it. Do you agree?

Thank you, Mr. Keast. I won’t let you down. I’ll be your top student, and I can help the teacher write down the lesson on the board.

He strode across the office and leaned out of the doorway to talk to his secretary. Will you please have Mrs. Gordon come to the office?

When Mrs. Gordon, a small, rotund, white-haired lady appeared in the doorway, Hazel was the first on her feet. Mrs. Gordon’s eyebrows raised a little as she accepted the young girl’s enthusiastic handshake. She motioned with one hand for the young girl to twirl so she could evaluate how the skirt hung. How did you manage to get the skirt to fall so nicely?

I cut it on the bias, Mrs. Gordon. That’s what Coco Channel does, although she uses silk and this is just plain cotton. It takes a little more fabric, but I think it’s worth it.

Oh. And I see your blouse does not have the customary gathering and fullness at the shoulder. Is this a new fashion? Did you make this pattern yourself?

Yes, Mrs. Gordon. Most of our customers at the orphanage are asking for this style now. Puffy sleeves are considered old-fashioned. And I make all the patterns now for all the dresses.

The teacher came closer to examine the button holes and she bent down to examine the hem of the skirt.

I must say, Miss, that I can’t teach you anything here. If you will come into the sewing room after school every day for a week, I’ll give you the grade twelve sewing exam. You’ll have to make patterns, a skirt and a blouse within that week, sitting in my classroom. If you pass, I’ll give you a grade twelve credit and you can spend extra time on other subjects. Are you able to supply your own pattern paper and fabric?

Sister Frances said, Of course, Ma’am. I’ll make sure she has everything she needs.

Hazel was beaming as she promised the teacher that she wouldn’t let her down. She felt quite grown-up as she shook her hand once again.

Mrs. Gordon gave Mr. Keast a nod of approval, and left the office with a smile on her face. She thought to herself that the young girl was definitely some sort of protégé. She hoped to hell that the old nun would guide this orphan carefully through the minefields of growing up in the depression years.

***

Sister Frances chided her. Come along, child. You’re lagging behind me. We have to get back, it’s time for you to set the dinner tables. She smiled a little, and teased, Just because you’re a big high school girl now doesn’t mean you don’t do your share you know.

Sister Frances, I need to say something.

Spit it out, child, spit it out.

You didn’t tell Mr. Keast the truth. I think we’d better go back and tell him the truth.

Sister Frances stopped and faced Hazel on the sidewalk. Child, you’re right. I didn’t tell the truth, and I will ask God’s forgiveness for this tonight during prayers. However, we don’t have to go back and tell Mr. Keast about this. Mr. Keast knows already. He had his fingers crossed when he had to ask the question whether or not you were an Indian. You see, the government doesn’t allow Indians the same privileges as others, and both Mr. Keast and I have to get around certain rules to make sure that a wonderful, smart girl such as yourself has every benefit in life that we can give. That’s why I couldn’t give him your birth information that we have on file. At least I told him that you were only eleven. So that part is true. Sometimes we have to make a choice, and that was my choice and I’ll have to live with it.

But Sister Frances.

It was the first time that the old nun had ever spoken sharply to her. Now listen here, Hazel G. I won’t have you arguing with me. Do as your told! It’s for your own good.

At that time, a neighborhood mother wheeling a baby carriage with a toddler in tow, shouted out, Sister Frances! How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!

They all stopped to chat, and the mother said to Hazel, My! You look so nice in your white blouse and skirt. Did Sister Frances make this for you?

No. I made it myself.

The whole thing? Without any help?

Yes. I’m smart. And I’m an Indian.

Sister Frances yanked her protégé’s arm around and with this, the startled mother ended the conversation and hurried up the street.

Don’t you ever disrespect me again. And don’t you ever speak in that tone of voice again. Do you hear me?

Hazel put her head down, overwhelmed by the old nun’s anger. Yes ma’am.

***

It was ten o’clock and the whole building had been shut down for the night. Sister Frances tip-toed down the darkened hall, holding on to the office key and her flashlight. Beads of sweat were forming across her nose as she quietly fiddled with the key to open the office door. It was an interior office with no light coming in from a window, and she groped her way across the large office to the filing cabinets behind the secretary’s desk.

She held her breath and looked around her as she switched the flashlight on.

She found the right file drawer, but it took her a few minutes to put her hands on the correct file. She noticed that her hand was shaking as she focused the beam of light over the papers as she sorted through them, one by one. Bingo! She carefully picked the document up and slid it into her pocket. She switched off the flashlight, and stood there in the dark, fingering the document in her pocket. She went to turn around toward the door, when doubt filled her. She carefully took the document out of her pocket and laid it on the desk in front of her. She tried to shield the light so it didn’t flood the room.

Yes. She had been right the first time. The document read:

Indian Status Card – Canada

Name: Murtle BigCanoe

D.O.B. May 14, 1900

Born: Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario,

Tribe: Ojibwe/Saulteaux

***

This document stayed hidden at the very bottom of Sister Frances’ underwear drawer for 35 years. It surfaced again, carefully enclosed in a post-marked envelope addressed to Mrs. Hazel Cavenagh in the summer of 1970, when the document changed Hazel’s life in a way that no one could have ever expected.

***

Sister Frances peaked her head into the classroom and quietly watched as Hazel wrote the times-tables out on the board. She was always acting as the teacher-assistant in the classroom, as she was leaps and bounds ahead of the other students.

Sister Frances knocked. Hazel G, after class, will you please come see me in the sewing room?

Hazel skipped into the sewing room and said, Hello Sister Frances. Do you need me to help you with something?

No thank you. But I do need to show you something. You may need to use it once you get out on your own, running your own successful dressmaking business. Please open this envelope and read it over carefully and then I can answer your questions. She pushed the envelope over to Hazel’s side of the table.

The child’s eyebrows raised a little as her eyes were drawn down immediately to the main headline that was typed out in all capitals, in dark black ink. It read:

Notice of Trademark Ownership

She looked up at Sister Frances, and the old nun smiled and said, Read the whole thing first, child. Start from the top of the page, and then we’ll talk.

She didn’t understand every word, and at her young age couldn’t really articulate it, but she had an inkling that Sister Frances was giving her, her own real identity that no one could ever take away from her, according to the law.

She said in wonder, "You mean I own the label Hazel G and no one can copy it or use it for their own fashions?"

Exactly. This is who you are child – who you really are. You don’t have to lean on other people to decide who you are – you’re smart enough to choose for yourself.

"So, just to be sure about this, you’re saying that no one can use the Hazel G label except me?"

Yes. When you leave the orphanage to start a new life, you will take the ownership of the label with you, and the orphanage will have to write you a formal letter to ask you if we can continue to use your label for our dresses. If you don’t want us to keep using the label, you have the power to sign or not to sign off on the request. You have the power now. This is who you are.

Yes, ma’am. I understand. I just have one question for you.

The old nun nodded.

Does this mean that you’re still the boss?

Sister Frances slapped her hands down on the table as she threw her head back and laughed and laughed. She shook her head and leaned over the table, And don’t you forget it, Hazel G! Oh, child, the day I met you was one of my biggest blessings!

She stood up to leave, but Hazel sat there, looking up at her.

What?

She carefully folded the Trademark Notice and inserted it back into the envelope. She pushed it back over to Sister Frances’s side of the table. Will you keep this safe for me, Sister Frances? It’s the most valuable thing I own, and I don’t want to leave it in my drawer upstairs.

***

Hazel didn’t lay her eyes on that legal notice again for another thirty-five years.

Chapter Two

Eastern High School of Commerce

It was on Wednesday, 2 September 1936, that Sister Frances’ care and concern for her star pupil, along with Hazel’s natural inclination to succeed at all costs led her to her first day of high school when she was almost twelve years old, at least one year younger than most of her Grade 9 classmates. She had sewn two beautifully made jumpers, a separate skirt and two white blouses to wear under the jumper or tucked into the skirt.

The big city of Toronto was still in the midst of the Great Depression, but it was the eleven-year-old orphan that called herself Hazel G who was the best dressed grade nine student to walk the hallowed halls of Toronto’s Eastern High School of Commerce.

***

Come on Hazel G, it’s lunch time and we’ve got to get a good spot on the lawn.

She was the last to leave the classroom. She hurriedly gathered up her books and dashed out to join the usual gang of six grade nine girls that had decided that she was worthy of being in their group.

They spread out in their circle on the high school’s back lawn and most of them opened a lunch bag. The girl with the flaming red curly hair sitting beside her asked, Are your parents rich or something? You always come with such a good lunch.

I don’t have any parents. I live at the orphanage, and I have kitchen privileges so I make my lunch myself down in the kitchen before I come to school.

Oh, the redhead said, I was just wondering. And you have a few different blouses and jumpers too.

Yes. I made them myself. But back to my lunch. You know, Lillian, I’m not that hungry today. Will you go splitzies with me?

As Lillian pinned her red curly hair back with a bobby pin, she nodded in quick agreement. Sure, I’ll go splitzies with you any day. And call me Red from now on. Everybody does.

From that day forward, Hazel G and Red were like two peas in a pod.

As Hazel G opened the wax paper to present the chopped egg sandwich to her new friend, neither one of them had any idea that many years later, with many of life’s milestones behind them, that they would find themselves on beaches around the world in Cannes, France, on Margarita Island off the coast of Venezuela, or on a city bus-boat in Venice. They also shared time even closer to home, down on the boardwalk at Woodbine Beach. No matter where they were, when lunch time came around, one would say to the other, Let’s have a sandwich. We’ll go splitzies.

***

Nine months later, Sister Frances spread the final semester grade nine report card out in front her.

Hazel was hovering over her shoulder, and she asked her biggest fan, Are you proud of me?

My child, I’m so proud of you that I could burst. In one school year, you have earned all your grade nine credits, along with a grade twelve credit, and two grade ten credits. You are a great blessing to me. It was my lucky day when you came through our door.

But look at me. I’ve grown again. I’m going to need some new clothes for next fall. And a new gym suit and new bathing suit too. Is there enough money in my share of the bazaar sales to pay for everything?

Of course. And you’ve got the whole summer ahead of you to sew up whatever you like. But remember, this is probably your last summer living here at the orphanage, so we’d better be careful with our choices.

I know, I know. But I don’t want to leave. This is where I belong. And I help out after school every day and on weekends too. Can’t I just stay a little longer?

Sister Frances sighed. Every meeting your name comes up, and every meeting I say something to put them off a little longer. There are so many other children. I’m sorry.

Well, can I plan on at least having the summer here?

Yes. You don’t turn thirteen until the fall, so we’re safe until after that.

I’m going to spend my summer reading all my grade ten and eleven textbooks and literature assignments so that I’ll stay ahead enough to graduate early, like we’ve been planning. And Mrs. Jessop in the office said I can practice my typing by helping her out this summer too.

Good girl. And I’ll try to get you a work placement that will allow you to go to school and do your work in the mornings and evenings. Don’t worry child. Now, remind me. What’s the name of the fancy graduation diploma that you’re going to get?

It’s the honors high school diploma. It’s called the Business SHSM Specialist diploma. It’s a diploma with a high-skills major, so I can get a job in an accounting office or so I can go to university.

God willing, child, God willing.

***

Hazel had the best summer of her life. She became indispensable to the orphanage, and she cheerfully attended to all her tasks of taking care of the smaller children, setting the big tables for meals or re-filing the many donated books in the library. She took her time to sew her new wardrobe and she giggled with Sister Frances when they measured that she had reached 5'7" before her thirteenth birthday. She ran all the way to school that first day of grade ten, her new blouse carefully starched and ironed, and her new skirt hemmed respectfully just below her knees.

***

Hazel sat on the kitchen chair and held the mirror, as Red stood in front of her, waving the pair of scissors around as she exclaimed, How difficult can it be? All we have to do is cut evenly all around, just below your ears. Then we put the curlers in and wait until it dries. Come on, Hazie. Don’t be such a chicken! We’re in grade ten now. Grow up!

Hazel sat there for a minute then she stood up, You first, Red. I promise I’ll do it too, no matter what your hair cut turns out like.

Three hours later, after allowing their hair to dry with the curlers in, they carefully removed each other’s curlers and used the comb to get the desired effect.

***

They stood there, heads together, adjusting the hand mirror between them to look at the results of their beauty makeover.

Hazel said in awe, Wait ’till the girls in class see us! Wait ’till Sister Frances see me! We look like movie stars! I never thought that my black, straight hair could look like this. I can’t wait until we’re old enough to wear lipstick.

Red added her two cents worth. Wait ’till the boys see us!

***

You’re just going to have to trust me on this one, child.

Hazel sobbed into her hanky, I know that I’m a big tall girl and that I’m thirteen now, but I’m feeling afraid to leave you and the orphanage. I’ve been so happy here, and I’m afraid to start out on my own.

You’re not alone, Hazel G. God is watching over you. And I’ll be right here waiting for you every Sunday when you have the afternoon off. And you know as well as I do, you have more friends in that high school than anybody. You’ll still be able to see them during the day at school. Count your blessings that we found a work placement that will allow you to finish up your high school and do your chores in the morning and evening. And it’s not far from here. You’ll still be able to walk to school.

I know. I know. And my new boss will pay me every Saturday, right?

Yes, child. Thirty cents a week, and you can spend it or save it anyway you want. Your room and board are included and you can go to school Monday through Friday. On your Sunday afternoon off duty, you can go to the movies; they cost five cents, so you’ll still have money left over. And I’ll take you there myself to meet the lady of the house. I’ve met her already, and she seems to be nice enough. She has three boarders living in the house, and the government pays her to take care of them. They were in the war and they have pensions. Mrs. Jones takes in laundry as well. And you’ll have your very own room. No more sharing. So, it should all be very manageable.

Yes, my own room sounds good. I can keep all my books there, and I can do my homework there too.

Yes, child.

Hazel blew her nose into her hanky and sighed. She looked Sister Frances in the face and said, All right, I’ll do it. As long as I can come back here every Sunday afternoon.

Sister Frances smiled and said, Now that’s what I like to hear! Here we are, it’s 1937, and my wonderful, smart protégé is ready for the next step in her exciting life!

***

Hazel had mixed emotions as she walked along, carrying her borrowed suitcase on the right, and her left arm tucked into her side, keeping Sister Frances’ arm firmly underneath it. She might have been a thirteen-year-old girl, but at 5'7" tall, she was head and shoulders over the portly nun accompanying her. Her mind flew from trepidation to excitement and back to trepidation again, over and over, as she tried to listen to what Sister Frances was saying to her.

She stopped up a little when they arrived at the walkway. She had to admit, she was a little impressed by the size of the house. Two large dormers rested on the second-floor roof, and there was a well-kept front porch with wide steps that lead up to a big, heavy door, with fancy cut glass in its’ window. She wondered where her bedroom would be. Her very own room. The first place in her life that she could call her own.

***

Hazel tried to smile a little as Mrs. Jones looked her up and down.

You’re a lot taller than most thirteen-year-olds. And it looks like you’ve had lots to eat at the orphanage. You’ll get your three squares a day here, but don’t expect any extras. God knows I’m paying you enough. Well, I suppose I’ll try you out and we’ll see how it goes. The Sister tells me that you can operate a washing machine and you know how to feed the furnace. We’re coal here, and it burns a little slower than wood, so you may not have to get up in the night with it.

Yes, ma’am.

They followed Mrs. Jones through her house, as she listed the duties that were to be performed in each room. On the way down from the third floor, Hazel was anxious as to where her room was. The three boarders, all vets from the first world war had the rooms on the second floor, and Mrs. Jones had the entire third floor to herself.

The kitchen seemed small to her, but she was only used to the big kitchen at the orphanage that fed forty children three times a day. Mrs. Jones was showing her how to light the pilot