I sat, lonely, in the desolate street corner where my mother had left me, reflecting. If I do may say it, I was a bright child, which was odd, considering that I had hardly even walked the streets before, as of some of three nights past. Since I was past the crying, I was too sick and starved, feeling as though there wasn't a thing left to be cried up, I set myself upon thinking. At first it was more of a hating, and being mad at God, for I thought he was the only one who'd listen, but then I began thinking instead. I was too tired to be mad.
We can't choose our lot in life. Some are rich, while others writhe in poverty; some laugh while others weep; some are born into good situations and some just have a dreary fate from their first day in this life, as it is. I was a Larding by birth, as through my mother, for no one knew who my father was. To be sure, I was actually a Harding, but long ago some line of distant relatives had changed it, for no one in the streets we lived – the cursed alleys of the poor, could say the "h" of it. We were all Cockneys of poor birth, and that was how we talked, with coarse vowels and executed words, leaving of "h"s and some "g"s and others. We Lardings, and the Hardings before us all seemed to be born badly, for it seems like once one is, you can't get of the wheel of misfortune. The wheel that is always spinning generation of poorer and worse creatures, crawling through life simply living to die. We had a swelled pride about us, though; as little as we had we wouldn't go to the workhouses. They'd tell us we could starve quickly out in the streets or slowly inside their prison-like walls. We chose suffering on the streets and did hard labors for small shares of pounds. My mummy had never married, for most Cockney men were rough, and she found no love, but she only got it worse because of that. She worked in a pub with small wage, her employer maddening and changing, knowing that no one could leave a job they depended on to such an extent, and so I came into being. She quit the bar till I was born, then kept me in our small one-room flat – her secret. She knew I'd have no life, being recognized as what I was – illegitimate. Being a Cockney was bad enough, but the only thing worse than one like me was a thief, so I stayed in the flat till now, when I was seven and some. She had waited to lead me off till I might have a chance of living, she said. On the way to where I am residing now, she gave me her parting advice. This was to avoid the workhouse beadle and not go there lest I was utterly desperate, and then with a "God bless you" she departed into the night, both of us crying and shaking.
Rain! I opened my mouth, a weak smile of delight, the rain carefully washing away the dry, sticky feeling inside of me, but despite how I tried I couldn't get enough, and then, after having sat there for three days, colors came before my eyes, and the walls of the alley began to enclose on me, then move apart again as my head spun in dizzy circles. I slipped into a dreadful delirium, and started dying.
I lay there forever till he came up to me and gave me a kick awake. Enjoying the cover of night, Mister Bill Sykes was roaming the streets, spying for anyone other unfortunately companions of the night whom might have something to his pleasing. He kept kicking until I groaned slightly, using what little strength I had.
"Yes, 'at's the way. And jus' 'o are you?"
I could hardly breathe. It hurt so to talk that I spoke, clutching my side with pain, "Nancy, suh."
"You're 'lone. W'ere you folks?"
If he was from that parochial poorhouse, I couldn't tell him the truth. I wouldn't have thought the beadle would be one to lurk in shadows kicking children awake, but in a time like this one couldn't ever be too sure. "Lost. I'm lost."
Silently then, he roughly flung me over his shoulder with one arm, carrying me as he did his burlap sack on the other. I was too tired and sick to fight or cry, scream or kick. The night man was calling "An hour till midnight and all is well. Hour to midnight!"