Elle's fictional prose

Heather (version 2) (13+)

In the 1880s, life was hard in London if you were poor. It might have been the biggest city in the world, but it was dirty and crowded. There were opportunities, but not enough for everyone. Not nearly enough. If you were a woman, your choices were few, and they were nasty. In Whitechapel alone, there were 62 brothels and more than 1,200 prostitutes. For most, it wasn’t a choice. It was survival. Many were without homes, and as a result of everything else, mortality and infant mortality in particular was high. Women were at the mercy of their menfolk, and with desperate times came violence and abuse. It was from this grim future that Heather was running.

Heather was nine years old and slight of frame. She was no innocent child though. Perhaps in the wealthy homes of nobles, a child of nine knew laughter and innocence, but not in the East End. If you were still alive at nine, it was because you were a survivor. You learned to move quickly, to dodge kicking feet and punching fists. You learned to eat when food was available and to do without when it wasn’t. And you learned to make the most of the smallest of opportunities.

There was still love and loyalty in this great city, but it was of a desperate nature. Heather had loved her mother. Her mother had always been tired and busy, but she’d have a smile for Heather and a quick hug. “Hugs and smiles are free,” Heather remembered her saying. So little was. Heather had watched her mother waste away from hard work, exhaustion, little food and something the neighbours called ‘the ‘sumption’ which had her coughing up blood in to dirty rags more often that Heather wanted to think about. Still, as long as her mother had breathed, Jack had tried to hold his temper. Heather was pretty sure that John wasn’t her father, but she didn’t know if he was her stepfather or.... It didn’t matter. He was the man of the house, and therefore he had the power. And the moment Heather’s mother had breathed her last, a few months ago, John had got steadily meaner. Heather wasn’t sure she could survive much longer. So she had come up with a plan, and she was getting out of London. She was going to make her fortune at sea.

The London Docks weren’t far from where Heather had lived all her life, but she’d never been there before. While the goods were expensive and the warehouses designed so that rich nobles would be satisfied their products remained in good condition, the sailors were rough, and those who provided services for the sailors were even rougher. Walking past the pubs and taverns, the homeless, the dangerous...your very life was at risk. Heather made her way slowly and carefully, her bare feet picking across cobblestoned streets and avoiding the worst of the filth. It took her nearly an hour to travel what was probably two miles, but she made it safely and that was all she cared about.

She’d cut her curly hair short with a pair of old scissors – it wasn’t neat, but it would help to make her look more like a boy. Her figure was still straight up and down, and she had no need of binding on her chest. Unless they stripped her below the waist, she’d probably cope, although she’d prefer to stay fully clothed if that were possible. She wasn’t sure yet what was possible and what wasn’t. So much remained unknown.


Written 17 October 2012