Black Road to Heaven

Chapter 3: Emily

I must have gone to sleep, although I have no idea when for I woke up in the morning with the woman on my mind.

It is such a shame; if I was white then I could beg a shilling and go to the baths and beg to train as her maid. She may say no, but it is not even an option for a black person to have any kind of future. No-one is going to take on a negro.

Slowly, I stand up, stretching my stiff, aching back. I saw a chimney sweep boy going into a medium sized house about three doors up the hill. I smiled at him, he must have been a year or two older than me, and he blinked in surprise when he saw that I was black; but a sharp jab from the chief sweeper soon got him moving again and he ran into the house.

Still slightly bleary eyed, I looked around me, thinking of food. If it were not for the woman, I would never get hunger off my mind; it was something so great that it was almost a part of me. It consumed me, ate me up; if you will excuse the pun.

I stumbled slightly down the street to get my breakfast from my friend Sam. He worked on the bread and cake stall on Baker Street and if I woke up early enough in the morningtide (which I always did, the hunger and cold woke me) then he would give me a big hunk of his bread. He was also my only friend and confidante; I told him all my secrets and my feelings, mainly about the woman.

“Emily, top o’ the morning to you!” He greeted me as I walked towards him down the empty street. He broke off a bit of bread from the huge loaf that he was currently cutting and I wolfed it down hungrily.

“Thank you.” I said. We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound coming from the knife as Sam sawed through the bread with precision until I said, and “Thank you very much for yesterday too, I saw you trying to hold people back.”

There was a pause while he finished cutting the last slice and then he put down his knife and looked me straight in the eye. “That should not have 'appened Emily. Because of them, that man died.” I nodded solemnly and he said, “I saw the woman too, she did not seem to be part of it. That is a good thing, is it not?”

I nodded again and then said, “Sam, do you make much money working here?”

He frowned at me and then, “Well I am not rich but I don’t do badly for a boy o' my age. If things were different, I would invite you to work here too Emily, you know I would.”

I smiled weakly, “I know you would Sam, I know.”

Just then, the first of the customers began to seep into the street and I said a hurried goodbye to Sam and ran away. Although he would never directly tell me, having a black girl at his stall would ruin his custom. I mentioned it to him once and he had kindly said that it could boost his sales because of the intrigue. It is possible I suppose, but I should not like to risk it for him.

I wondered how long it would be before the woman came to Baker Street...?

***

I did not see her until later on in the day. Her gown was green with white bows on, and she was accompanied by her husband again; he was wearing a green neck tie.

He detached himself from her and entered a small blacksmiths through a run-down looking door. Golly, what was someone as rich as he, doing in a shabby blacksmiths?

He left his wife outside and as the sun came out, she opened her dainty parasol; green with white frills. Everything about her was perfect!

Perhaps now would be a good time to explain everything, I should have done it earlier really. My name is Emily and I am ten years old. I am black and I am homeless because my Mother, who was white, gave me away when she realised that I was black; she left me on the doorstep of a church with a note which I have long since lost. Not that I could every read it anyway, I can barely read or write, they taught me simple things at the institute but nothing very advanced. The institute being the place where the priest sent me, fearing me to be Lucifer in human form; the place I ran away from aged eight.

Well, that is what I think happened, but on the other hand, prehaps I just told myself that so many times that I now believe it. Anyway, I found myself on Baker Street one day, after being told that that is where a lot of peasants are, and there I met Sam. Later in the day, I saw the most beautiful woman. I immediately liked her, and I began to imagine that she was my real Mother and recognised me and I went away to live with her. A stupid thing to imagine I know, but living on the streets makes you do foolish things. No-one cares how ridiculous you look, you see!

The woman noticed me that same day and I was so happy, I almost expected my daydream to come true; but instead she threw me down a shilling from her carriage. Ever since then, I’ve always stayed on Baker Street hoping to see her. She never used to come very often but now she comes a lot since she was married.

I remember the day of her wedding very well, it was around Christmas-time last year, I didn’t see the groom then, only her in her white dress on the way to the church (my church, to be married by my priest) looking happier than I’ve ever seen anyone look in my life! I remember wishing she could look like that when she saw me. But there was of course, no chance of that! Why would she be happy to see a scrawny little negro peasant like me when she is so rich and beautiful?

I broke away from my daydream and looked up to see where she had done and to my horror, I found she was walking towards me!

As much as I’ve wished for her to notice me, to talk to me, I know that I could never impress her as much as I wanted to. Any realistic conversation that we could have would not be worth having.

I began to tremble, had she seen me watching her... for two years?

Then she was in front of me, and saying, “You girl, hold out your hand.”

Never have I been aware of my own stench more in my life. Sweet perfume radiated from her, and now that I was close to her, I could see how heavily made-up she was, and how many pins had been put in her hair. Were all rich people like this, I loved it?!

Slowly, I held out both my dirty hands, not daring to breathe for fear of her catching the smell of my near rancid breath.

From her long fingers, a single shilling appeared, and she held her hand about a foot above me and dropped the coin into my palm.

Not knowing how to curtsey properly, I just bobbed and said shakily, “Thank you ma’am.” I was longing to ask her why she was giving me money all of a sudden, but I daren’t. Instead I tried to compare my voice to hers, were they similar? I had listened to the way rich people talked for the past two years, and tried to imitate them. Had it worked?

Just as I was about to chastise myself for being a fool, she said, “You speak like a maid, have you ever been employed?”

She was so well spoken that her voice sounded like a lullaby, sing-songy and sweet.

I shook my head, “No ma’am.”

Just then her husband came out of the shop. When he saw me with a shilling in my hand, talking to his wife, he rushed across the road in front of a carriage, almost causing a repeat of yesterday.

“Mind how you go there my good fellow!” The driver called out, but the man ignored him. He grabbed the woman by the waist and veered her off and away from me, spitting out behind him for good measure.

“Good heavens Charles, must you be so vulgar?” the woman said. So her husband’s name was Charles.

“Yes my dear, that’s the only way those creatures will learn.” Charles said.

And with that, I left Baker Street.