A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [63]
The metronome clicked on dreamily; the clock ticked querulously. Miss Tynmore, as if not trusting the metronome, counted, one, two, three; one, two, three. Katie’s work-swollen fingers struggled doggedly with her first scale. Time passed and it grew dark in the room. Suddenly the alarm clock rang out shatteringly. Francie’s heart jumped and Neeley fell off his chair. The first lesson was ended. Katie’s words tumbled over each other in gratitude.
“Even if I never take another lesson, I could go on with what you taught me today. You are a good teacher.”
Miss Tynmore, while pleased by the flattery, nevertheless told Katie what was what. “I won’t charge extra for the children. I just want you to know you’re not fooling me.” Katie blushed and the children looked down on the floor, ashamed of being found out. “I will permit the children to stay in the room.”
Katie thanked her. Miss Tynmore stood up and waited. Katie verified the time she was to do Miss Tynmore’s housework. Still she waited. Katie felt that something was expected of her. Finally she inquired,
“Yes?”
Miss Tynmore flushed a shell pink and spoke proudly. “The ladies…where I give lessons…well…they offer me a cup of tea afterwards.” She put her hand to her heart and explained vaguely, “Those stairs.”
“Would you sooner take coffee?” Katie asked. “We have no tea.”
“Gladly!” Miss Tynmore sat down in relief.
Katie rushed out to the kitchen and heated the coffee which was always standing on the stove. While it was warming, she put a sugar bun and a spoon on a round tin tray.
In the meantime, Neeley had fallen asleep on the sofa. Miss Tynmore and Francie sat exchanging stares. Finally Miss Tynmore asked,
“What are you thinking about, little girl?”
“Just thinking,” Francie said.
“Sometimes I see you sitting on the gutter curb for hours. What do you think of then?”
“Nothing. I just tell myself stories.”
Miss Tynmore pointed at her sternly. “Little girl, you’ll be a story writer when you grow up.” It was a command rather than a statement.
“Yes ma’am,” agreed Francie out of politeness.
Katie came in with the tray. “This may not be as refined as you’re used to,” she apologized, “but it’s what we have in the house.”
“It’s very good,” stated Miss Tynmore daintily. Then she concentrated on trying not to wolf it down.
To tell the truth, the Tynmores lived on the “tea” they got from their pupils. A few lessons a day at a quarter a lesson did not make for prosperity. After paying their rent, there was little left to eat on. Most of the ladies served them weak tea and soda crackers. The ladies knew what was polite and would come through with a cup of tea but they had no intention of supplying a meal and paying a quarter, too. So Miss Tynmore came to look forward to the hour at the Nolans. The coffee was heartening and there was always a bun or a bologna sandwich to sustain her.
After each lesson, Katie taught the children what she had been taught. She made them practice half an hour each day. In time, all three of them learned to play the piano.
When Johnny heard that Maggie Tynmore gave voice lessons, he figured that he could do no less than Katie. He offered to repair a broken sash cord in one of the Tynmore windows in exchange for two voice lessons for Francie. Johnny, who had never even seen a sash cord in all his life, got a hammer and screwdriver and took the whole window frame out of its case. He looked at the broken rope and that was as far as he could go. He experimented and got nowhere. His heart was willing but his skill was nil. In attempting to get the