At the end of a dusty, winding road, a fenced lot rose up. In the middle of the lot stood a tall house that seemed to ooze coldness. The tall, slightly decorated iron gate was a formidable sight. The flickering light of a nearby street lamp hit a rusted sign that read Hopewood Asulym in crooked letters.
The Matron of the Hopetown Orphanage looked tiredly at her watch. Her hand was cramping, from writing seemingly endless petitions, budjet cuts, food orders, all everyday upkeep of establishment of this size, and it wasn't even noon yet.
Faint echoes of children's steps echoed in the corridors, which were clean,( as it was one of the orphans job to keep corridors clean)paint was peeling, as donors had tightened their purse strings in recent years. The office was furnished with austere-style. There were cheap prints on the wall, frayed window curtains, small bookshelf, all books had the same theme, spiritual literature. In one corner there was tall cabinet of heavy embossed oak. That dresser, and its locked drawers, held slim folders with the names of all the orphans who had passed through those doors over the years.
The matron was adjusting her glasses when there was a faint knock at the door. She sighed, and said in a bored tone, "Come in, then."
The door opened a crack, and a child, dressed in a wimsey, skimpy checked dress with thick tow-colored braids entered. She looked around in a faint cat-like manner, quickly assessing her surroundings, as if looking for a place to escape, or a scrap of a chance to be useful. Matron glanced at Mary Vance standing in front of her and finally said in an annoyed tone. "Remind me, Miss Vance, how long have you been at Hopewood now?"
A light flashed in the pale, malnourished childs's very pale cold-blue eyes, and she said, politely, "About two years, Mam. The neighbors sent me here when they couldn't think what to do with I. Both my parents have deid, of booze, poor quality gin, it was."
"Hmm, and you haven't been to any other schoolhouse than the one you we have here at Hopetown?" Matron questioned, in firm tone of voice.
Mary Vance, nodded, as she crossed her thin, slim hands in front of her.
Matron continued. " Let´s see. It seems that you're good at arithmetic, but your grammar is poor, and your speech is sometimes too colorful, but beggars can't be choosers. Listen carefully now. I've had a letter from a Mrs Wylie, she's a widow. She in her letter, requested a girl-child, to help her run the house, doing errands, and so on, as is getting on a bit. Mrs. Wylie lives in Prince Edward Island, so not too far from our own Nova Scotia, it so happens that our orphanage has sent a few orphans to that island over decades. So, I have dediced that you shall suit to her needs very well."
Matron looked closely at Mary Vance, but the child just looked back blankly, and inquired "When will I be picked up, or will I go myself?" Mrs. Wylie is expecting you in April, and she sent money for the streamer and the train, in advance, which is a bit odd, but maybe she has the money. This is true luck for you, Mary-creature. Now go about your chores."
As she walked the corridors of Gloomy Hopewood, as the other orphans called facility, Mary Vance would sometimes tug at one of her braids, as the coarse, thick hair tickled her face. Mary passed the large classroom where she, along with many others, had studied every day for these two years, and she turned the corner and walked up the stairs to the dormitory. In the hall, there were simple, iron beds next to each other, and small chests of drawers next to each bed.
Mary took her seat and looked up at the ridged ceiling, which seemed to be so very high. Mary was not usually sentimental or dreamy, but she too had her own secret dreams, which life, poverty, or violence had not yet managed to take away from her. Her own version of Celestial City like in that book, of some pilgrim who wandered all over. Maybe she would finally get a little squirrel-skin muff in which she could warm her small, calloused hands in the winter. Maybe there would really be such, and a place, perhaps even home, where she wouldn't be treated badly, and dark spruce trees with the most wonderful pieces of resin, and maybe other children to play with, who would treat her like one of them. Then there would be no mocking ryhmes all sung in whispers at lines, at all hours, as there were lot of other children also named Mary in Hopewood, so the sung whispers echoed, quite often.
Mistress Mary, Quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
Carefully Mary opened her own drawer. There was nothing in there that had not come from Hopewood budget. For Mary had no possessions at all, only her own name—a long list of names of former relatives after whom she had been named, as in a memento of ways long lost or a way to curry a favor or few dollars, for some distant not dead relative.
The loud chimes of clock echoed in the hall. Diligent and active Mary, shook her head, scattering old memories, as she ran towards tlaundry room, for it was her turn to watch that the fire did not just go out under the laundry pot.
The large and shadowy laundry room smelled of soap, starch, and something metallic, a familiar scent that seemed to match fumes of gin in Mary's memories. Slowly Mary got up on the bench, and scratched the gas lamp to light.
The room was in shambles. The great washing-pot had fallen over. Stack of starched white Hopewood Aprons were stained with blood, for Mary found that fair Susanne Harwood had cut her throat. Mary frowned, and jumped, down to floor level. She took a dust rag and started to wipe blood splatters from floor. Mary thought that maybe the rumors whispered in the corridors by the flock of elder girls had been true, about Mr. Davidsen and his penchant for extra-tutoring in the evenings.
Annoyed, Mary pursed her lips, there were always ways, grass-cures, and money was always available, one way or another. When bloodstains were removed, Mary touched Susanne's hand, and adjusted the position of her skirt, and tied a handkerchief to cover her slit throat, just as a helpful neighbor had done for Mary's own father, in that wretched apartment, where almost all the furniture had been pawned and sold long time ago. Mary balled her hands into fists, and crossed Susanne's arms, and then she checked that everything was in place, and left the laundry room, as she was already late.
The bell rang, again. It called the orphans to dinner.
Rows of children dressed in gray, girls and a few boys, sat at long tables. The matron looked up from her plate to see Mary Vance sliding into her seat, belatedly. Then suddenly a voice was heard, "Susanne is not here."
The matron frowned and announced "Hopewood's orphans. If you know the whereabouts of Susanne Harwood please tell me, as she is breaking one of our basic principles. All mealtimes are mandatory. I just found out that she is not a patient in the infirmary, either." A light commotion echoed through the hall and was finally broken by Mary Vance's reedy voice saying in her blunt way "I suggest one can start in the laundry room before doing a wider search, Mam."
Days passed, and the corridors of Hopetown were bustling of whispers. What had happened was horrible, but at the same time the incident was enjoyed, its gruesomeness, because death broke, usual, everyday routines.
At the end of March, Mary Vance, boarded a steamer. Mary was wearing neat, but slightly shabby clothes. Mary smiled at the clear sky as the steamer moved on, as her native island of Nova Scotia was left behind. In couple of days it was April and her new life would began. The other passengers glanced curiously at plain girl, who was curiously watching, rushing water, as if she had never seen it before.
A/N: Celestial City is a place in John Bunyan's allegorical novel The Pilgrims Progress(1678).