"His coffers sound; with hollow poverty and emptiness"
John
It's cold; a seizing vicious iciness.
This is the only thought that penetrates my mind this morning. The street lamps are still lit; the sun will not be out for a few more hours.
My coat does not fit; it is too small in the sleeves, too tight in the chest. I've grown faster than my mother anticipated. There is no money for another, not until next winter.
I am running, half to warm myself up, half so that I am not late. The draper snarls at me when I arrive. I am not late so he must yell at me for something else. My untidy hair, my unpolished boots.
I spend the day cutting, measuring, fetching, running. My breakfast turns sour in my stomach. My mother never had call to cook before and has no great skill at the task even now, two years later.
I watch my numb hands perform the movements. I can almost do this work in my sleep. Sometimes I feel I do.
I feel as though I am underwater; my ears filled with wool, a veil over my eyes. Nothing seems to penetrate the fog in my mind and this is why the draper hates me. He only keeps me because I am the only assistant he has ever had that follows orders and does as he's told without question.
I should not be here. I should be finishing school, off to university perhaps, but not here. Not here, after all my brilliant hopes and dreams for the future. All snuffed out in a single moment. A moment too painful to think of that I jerked my head away roughly, as though to shake the memory from my mind.
At one o'clock I am given a respite. I try to eat the small offering of food my mother has packed for me but it turns to ash in my mouth. I haven't felt hungry in years.
Dusk comes, and I am released to return home. It's drizzling slightly, a thick smog has blanketed the city. My damp hair falls into my eyes.
My little sister is crying when I arrive home. She has croup again. Her strange barking cough pierces my stupor. Coal is costly; we cannot spare more for this month. But if we do not steam the room, my sister's cough will only worsen.
I venture back out into the barrage of rain. I go to the station, the banks of the canal. I gather anything I can find that will burn and bring it home to my mother. I lay my bounty at her feet, a small pathetic offering from the provider of our family.
Our tiny flat is hung with clothes. My mother has taken in piecework to earn extra coin. Competing as she does with the many seamstresses and milliners in this city, she earns very little. It is my wages that support us, but it is not enough. I need to do more. Be more. I must become something else, something better than a draper's assistant if I am to provide for my family.
My education is limited, cut short by death. But I am a hard worker. Anyone who knows me will testify to this.
I stare at my sister's tiny face and my mother's prematurely line one. My determination intensifies. This is the first emotion I've felt in years. I will pull us from this destitution. I will become more, greater, better than even he was.
If I have to become ruthless to do so, so be it. I will never live like this again.
