My worn leather shoes made not a sound as I crept down the narrow stairs, past closed doors hiding dozens of families packed into tiny spaces. The coughing and wheezing from behind those doors was a grim morning chorus. I often wondered how many would still be there by the day’s end. Death came early and often in the rookeries of the East End.
Heading toward the textile mill as the city began to stir, I cherished the silence of those deserted streets. It was my only time alone before the backbreaking labor of the factory began. How I wished then that my childhood had been different, that my father hadn't died and left us destitute, that I was not forced to spend my days inhaling lint while my fingers slowly turned gnarled and stiff.
But evening brought a lift to my spirit as I'd join my faithful friends Mary, Elizabeth and Jane. We'd gather at the well, the day’s troubles melting away as we laughed and played like the carefree girls we should have been. Despite it all, we found joy where we could - sneaking a bruised apple from a cart or standing entranced before the window display of a bakery, pretending the treats were ours.
After, we’d roam the streets hoping to earn a few pennies, knowing our families depended on what little we could provide. Those nights still haunt me, the danger we faced from those who viewed girls like us as easy targets. And yet back then it seemed a grand adventure, the four of us against the world.
I wonder sometimes what became of them all, Mary, Elizabeth and Jane. The bitter years erased so much but never the memory of the friends who made even the darkest days bearable. We were bound by our shared lot in life, and above all by the hope that somehow, someday, things would be better...
