Martha snapped out of her daydream at the sound of boots clicking on the rough cobblestone alleyway. Instinctively, she hunched down behind the wall of the trash bin, trying not to be seen by what could possibly be a passing bobby. But she was too late.
"Well 'ello there, Missy, lost are ya?" The officer was rather rotund and smelled of cigar smoke, but overall he seemed a nice gentleman, and Martha decided that she could trust him with more information than she normally gave out.
"Sir," she pleaded, her large brown eyes upraised to meet his gaze, "I was playing with my friends, and I was climbing this box, and I accidentally fell in to it. My friends ran off to get some help." Please let this work, please let this work, she prayed to whoever might be listening. She didn't really believe in God or a god, since He didn't seem to have ever been there for her, but she always prayed when caught in a tight situation, just in case.
"Young lady, this is a dead end street, and I've been patrolling Fifth-third avenue all morning. I didn't see any lads or lasses come running out of this alley." His eyes narrowed, looking Martha up and down.
She gulped.
"Yeah, uh, they didn't run, they must've left when you had your back turned, 'cause they definitely went for help." Martha nodded her head emphatically. "Mhm, yep, they definitely did."
The bobby scooped Martha up and set her on the ground. She didn't even bother picking up the trash that could very well serve as her dinner for the night. Giving one last fearful look at the police man, she tore off like a jet, thankful her petticoat had torn up to her knees, making it easy to run.
"Young lady, wait!" The bobby yelled at Martha and made chase, but since Martha was rather used to running, and the policeman was rather rotund and very much used to full meals, she lost him after a few minutes of scurrying down side streets and dark alleys.
Martha ducked her head as she entered the small, drafty shelter she called home. She and Maggie had made it when Maggie realized that enough pallets stacked together and covered with an old tarp made a nice home. That is, until lice showed up in their hair the next morning. They were both shorn by noon, but the upside was that they had a nice bonfire that evening, a rare treat. Maggie had managed to beg the baker's wife for some matches without too much questioning ensuing, but they still left their campsite the next morning in case an investigator came snooping around. They made a new pallet home, without the blanket this time, and were still living in it when Maggie decided to head back to the orphanage.
Martha went and curled up in the coat she now used as a blanket in the far left corner of the room. She tried not to use it unless absolutely necessary; she wanted it to last as long as possible since she had no clue when she would next have anything resembling a blanket. The jacket was a gift from the nuns at the nunnery across the road that they gave once a year around Christmastime. Martha realized with a fallen heart that she would not get a coat this Christmas, and hoped that she could find a job sometime between now and next winter.
Rain started to drip down the roof that her pallet structure was under, but thankfully it was soft enough where it wasn't able to penetrate through the small slits in the pallets. She tried to remember the lullaby her mother would sing to her every night, but she had trouble remembering the words. Maggie was the one with the memory.
You idiot, Martha reprimanded herself. Neither of you have any idea what mama used to sing to you. As the rain started to come down in sheets, it began to leak through the pallets, and Martha's tears mingled with the rain on the cold, stone floor as she slowly relaxed enough to fall asleep.
The next morning, Martha woke up with a slight chill from the rain, but nothing too serious. She could fight off a cold; colds were doable. She decided to indulge herself today and wrapped her coat around her shoulders and she went out to face the nippy morning air.
The morning was brilliant. Martha guessed it had to be close to 7 in the morning, and the last bit of the sunrise was left scattered throughout the sky. Reds and pinks blended with a pale, baby blue. It almost looked like one of the paintings she had seen when she was a maid for a wealthy patron of the orphanage. She had been boxed on her ear for spending too much time dawdling, but the picture was so pretty it was worth it.
Martha trudged along, staring at the sky and trying to look like she had somewhere specific to be, instead of loitering in the park like the homeless orphan she actually was. A piece of metal by a park bench caught her eye, and she scooped it up in her hand. Gasping, she realized it was a thimble. Upon closer inspection, she saw the initials M.R. on them.
No, it couldn't be. Martha put the thimble in her pocket. But it looks exactly like the one she was given. Maggie had been given a thimble by one of the nuns, but she was young enough at the time that she was convinced when she was older that the thimble had been her mother's. So, she carved her initials, Maggie Rembrend, into the thimble, and never parted with it, even in sleep.
It's odd that she should lose it now. Perhaps her pocket has a hole in it finally. Martha knew that her sister would end up missing her precious possession soon enough, but returning it would mean returning to the orphanage. They'd never let her leave once they found her. Maybe she could set it on a windowsill. Surely someone would find it and inquire around as to who it belonged too. That way, her sister would get back her thimble, and Martha could keep her freedom. With that plan in mind, Martha made her way across town, trying to shake the nagging fear that was pulling her in the back of her mind.
Thank you all for your support. Hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy making it.