★avys

 Unfortunately, hope isn’t always something they can rely on and trust. Some nights, they speak of unpleasant things, of things that a child shouldn’t be burdened with, of the war that has torn their family apart.

     “I wish they didn’t have to leave us.”

     Rose looks at her sister, she understands her sister’s worries. It was only a natural response to being sent away, even if it wasn’t their parents’ fault. But right now, Lily needs someone to blame.    “They didn’t leave us, not forever.”

     Lily sighs, she’s the older sister, she should be comforting Rose but instead, Rose seems to be the one who has everything figured out in terms of dealing with their new life. But Lily can’t help but not believe her, there’s always a chance that they won’t come back. “You know as well as I do that the chances dad gets back from war alive are slim.”

     And yet, Rose stays firm in her faith. “Yes, but mum’s a nurse, she isn’t in as much danger. She’s not on the frontlines. She’ll come back to us, I know it.” But her sister remains stubborn and Rose tries instead to find a way to lighten the mood. “I hope so anyway, I couldn’t imagine spending years in this dreadful place.” A look of pure disgust graces her face, “Woolton pie everyday for years? Not with how much Marmite Mrs. Howard adds.”

     “Well as soon as I turn 18, I’ll be out.”

     Rose looks at her, unimpressed. “You don’t have to rub it in. It would be more tolerable if Mrs. Howard would light the fire. There isn’t that much of a shortage of wood.”

     “I think she might rather if we all perish from the cold, less mouths to feed and more rations for her.”  They both laugh lightly, their moods successfully lifted and the gloom of what may or may not come is lighter.

     Until the clock chimes again. Lily stands as she says, “We should get back to bed, night check-in should be soon and we don’t want to be caught down here.” She starts walking towards the stairs and is cautious to step on any creaky planks. She reaches the first step before she realises Rose is not behind her. She looks back and sees Rose still on the ground in front of the fireplace. Lily notices that she’s acting strange, staring into the fireplace like it’s hypnotising her, as if something was there.

     “Rose?” She whispers harshly, the younger girl breaks her trance and quickly, but carefully, follows her sister. Lily is concerned for her sister’s unusual behaviour but continues climbing the stairs and decides to ask her another time.

     The sunlight shows no mercy to the 8 girls sleeping in the room with no curtains, groans and grumbles can be heard throughout the room. Suddenly, the door flies open and in comes Mrs. Howard, carrying a brass bell that she rings throughout the quiet room. “Let’s go girls. 7am. Time for the morning chores.” She looks around the room at the slow-moving girls, ranging from ages of 11-16, and notices one girl already standing beside her bed, ready for the day. She raises an eyebrow at her, “Eager to work today, Rosalind?”

     Rose nods firmly once, “Of course, Mrs. Howard, The early bird catches the worm, as you always say.” Mrs. Howard remains suspicious but nods and leaves the room.

     As the other girls groan and slowly pull themselves out of their beds, Rose finishes folding her pyjamas and placing them neatly at the end of the perfectly made-up bed. Folding her hands in front of her, she leaves the room in an orderly fashion to go downstairs and receive her chores for the day.

     Looking at the blackboard at the bottom of the rickety wooden stairs, she glances down the list of names until she finds it; R.V.. There she finds her list of chores for each part of the day.

     Morning: Brush the living space and communal area’s floors and laundry for girls’ room ages 4-10.

     Afternoon: Help prepare dinner and do the dishes from the meal.

     Evening: Clean all windows in all bathrooms and return clean sheets to girls’ room ages 4-10.

     Night-time: Take rubbish out of kitchen bins and clean fireplace.

     Another busy day ahead of herself, but at least it beats hiding from the Blitzkrieg back home. And so, she starts her chores. First in the house to start and always with a smile on her face.

     Mrs. Howard stared at her strangely as she watched her, she always did because Rose always seemed to be pleased to do the chores. And so, Mrs. Howard would increase the hardship of them more and more over those two weeks since she arrived. But never, never did it seem to dull Rose’s shine.

     And so, as Rose walked into the room housing the youngest girls, she saw a familiar face. A face she had spoken to occasionally over that past fortnight. A face most commonly buried in a certain book. The Hobbit.

     “How far have you gotten today?”

     The girl looked up at Rose’s voice and beamed, “Rosie! I stayed up a little later last night so I could finish it again.”

     Rose’s eyes narrow as she moves to the first bed to strip the sheets for the wash. “Would that be the 3rd time you’ve read it now?”

     “4th. I love it so much, I can’t help but read it over and over.”

Rose smiles, adding the sheets to a basket and carrying it to the next bed, the one beside the little girl.

     The girl sets down her book on her nightstand, the page number burned into her head for later. She watches Rose hum as she smiles and works away. Then a question dawns on her.

     “Rosie?”

     “Yes, dear?”

     “Can I ask you something?”

     Picking up on the smallness of her voice, Rose stops fiddling with the sheets and walks closer to the girl, sitting on her knees in front of her. “Of course, dear. You can ask me anything.”

She looks down at her hands in her lap, shuffling and shifting nervously before she gets the courage to continue, and Rose waits. Patiently waits with just a smile and kind hazel eyes.

     “If The Hobbit were real, where would we fit into it?”

     Rose thinks, and she thinks hard on this question. For she knows, to the girl, it may be more than a child’s mindless curiosity and wonder. She knows that this book may be her last grip on that childlike wonder or it may even feel more like reality than the war-ridden world they call the only reality.

     “Well I believe we have the ability to choose where we fit in any story.” The girl looks at her, confusion but curiosity evident in her eyes. So, Rose continues, “If you would like to be from Lake Town, then you may strive to be someone from Lake Town.” She notices the girl starting to understand but the hope in her eyes is still small.

     Rose takes another moment, a sly look coming about her face, “But, if you wish to be a fantastical creature,” her voice filling with wonder as if she were reading the story to the girl, “then try your best to achieve qualities you see in them that you admire.”

     Her last chore for the day. Rose had just taken the bin bag out to the bin at the side of the orphanage. Now it was time for her last task before bed. Well, before her and Lily would meet at the same fireplace she was about to clean.

     She could never understand why Mrs. Howard would make them clean the unused fireplace, for if it was never to be used, why should it be cleaned every night as if it were?

     And still, she grabbed a mop bucket, filled it with hot water she had been boiling on the kettle before taking the rubbish out. Pouring it into the bucket with a very little amount of washing up liquid, to preserve the bottle as long as possible, and grabbing a sponge, she brought it all to the fireplace.

     As she waited for the water to cool down a tad, she grabbed the duster and started dusting the mantelpiece, along with the trinkets sporadically placed to bring some style into the worn and bare room. Rose made sure to lift each piece of clutter to dust as she knew Mrs. Howard would check every little crevice for dust.

     As she cleaned, she remembered a fond memory from back home, before the war. A time when the biggest problem was getting their home cleaned diligently for a gathering. She had been dusting the mantelpiece, The authentic wooden frame, varnished to perfection, and decorated beautifully with photo frames of the family smiling brightly. Rose’s favourite was always of her parents’ wedding day, along with the story that would always be told with it.

     Her mother stood in the beautiful white wedding dress, floor length with a slight train and the lace covering decorated with countless embroidered flowers. Rose had always loved that dress, she dreamed of wearing it herself some day. She always hoped to find someone that would love her like her father loved her mother, someone who would wait for her, as long as he did for her. She had been adamant that she did not want to marry as early as her sisters and friends had. And he had been so smitten. Everyday, he would be waiting outside her door to walk her to wherever she had been planning on going for the day. Whether it was just a quick stop to the market to pick up food for dinner on behalf of her mother or a day out shopping and gossiping with her friends. He always made sure to be waiting outside the door. He had a night-shift job working as security at the local bank then and as soon as his shift would end, he’d race to wait outside her door.

     From the very beginning of his courting her, until the very day she decided she was ready to marry.  And that day had been one of his happiest and it was clearly shown in the photo. His hand lightly caressing her cheek and his loving eyes staring at her as her head was held down and a bright smile possessing her face. She loved the pose they were in, his father still evidently expressing his love for her even when she wasn’t looking, she always saw him with that look, anytime her mother turned her back for even a second and his gestures would shift into that same face. Even 17 years later.

Rose shook her head, pulling herself from her mind and focusing herself back on the chore. She placed the duster back in the kitchen wardrobe with the floor brush and mop and returned to the fireplace.

     She heard faint giggling and whispers from upstairs as she passed the stairs, it was not yet bedtime, however it was bordering on it. She had to finish cleaning soon or she’d be late for the night checks. And so she knelt down, picked up the sponge, squeezing some water out and got to cleaning.

     Today was different. She couldn’t really explain why or how, but it had been different. There was something in the air, almost. The afternoon brought a change, she felt stranger. More out of place than normal. She had been feeling out of place here since the start and she always did her best to get rid of that, she never knew how long it would take before she could go home. But it felt more off now, she felt like she should be doing more. She should be more. There had to be a reason, she couldn’t accept any different.

     Her thoughts were racing, why did she feel like this? Why did something change today? Why couldn’t she just be normal, accept this was all she was here for? She had helped the little girl who loved the Hobbit, yes. But was that it? Was that all she could do? Her mother was across seas saving soldiers, mending them back to health to fight again. To save everyone. She was there, but Rose was stuck here only good for cleaning a bloody fireplace-

     A crack.

     She froze.

     There was a crack.

     A crack in the fireplace.

     But how?

     She knew she had been scrubbing harshly as her thoughts had angered her but no.

     No, she couldn’t have done this, a giant crack along the back of the fireplace. She hadn’t even been cleaning near there.

     But how could it be possible? She guessed the stonework was old, but that old? And it wasn’t even being used, none of the girls there had seen it being used and some had been there since being a babe before the war.

     No, it couldn’t be age. But what else?

     And then she saw it, the cracks made the shape of something.

     A face. How strange. A face made of cracks in an old, unused fireplace.

     And then it started to dawn on her, a crack in the fireplace. She would be in deep trouble. Mrs. Howard would not be happy at all. She rushed to put her cleaning supplies away, maybe if she rushed to bed and wasn’t caught at the fireplace, she may not notice. Maybe she would skip her inspection today, she had before. Yes, it would all work out.

     But then what? What if she got away with it but then the next girl to clean the fireplace was punished for it. This was very bad, how could she fix this?

     She thought and thought and thought as she emptied the bucket into the sink, returned it and the sponge to their rightful places; one in the kitchen wardrobe and one in the cupboard under the sink, respectively.

     She decided she would sleep on it, she would be the first to awake tomorrow again and she would have made a plan by then. She wouldn’t be meeting Lily at the fireplace, no way, not tonight but it would be sorted in the morning.

     A white rundown farmhouse sits in the countryside. Alone for miles, surrounded by silence and the wind. Not a sound to be heard, even the children inside remain silent. Afraid of the outside, afraid of what might find them if they make a small noise. Children at heart, but forced to be robotic in following each instruction for fear they might come for their home next. Where before fear was not an uncommon emotion, felt only when they were caught breaking a vase while playing in the sitting room or slipping off the monkey bars at the park. Now, it became the base emotion for each day. No longer did children wake up with joy for the day or glee to sleep in for the weekend. No longer could they feel like children. Not after the big metal casings started falling from the sky and making really loud noises, causing fire to spread where it landed and destroying the Earth around it. Not after they were rushed from their homes to the nearest train station. Not when their parents had to stay behind, the chance of never seeing their children again was the only thing in their mind.

     St. Philomena’s Orphanage. That’s where many of the girls ended up during the rush to leave London. Lost to the country’s back roads, surrounded only by fields and trees. It was the only option for the Venusta sisters. Their father having been sent off to war the year prior and then their mother offered the placement of a military nurse at a base somewhere across the ocean, she never told them exactly where. The girls had nothing left. No more family to be shipped off to on such short notice. Nowhere in the world that wanted nor needed them. And so, to the orphanage they went.

Lily Venusta, the oldest of the two, was always her father’s daughter. Strong in the face of danger and the bravest in sight when running from the war. Her face stayed stern as she said goodbye to her mother, as she boarded the train, as she calmed her sister throughout the journey, even as they were unceremoniously welcomed into the orphanage. She stayed strong for her sister, she wanted to be strong for her.

     Her sister, however, tells a different story. Rose Venusta, the younger sister, though not by much, took after her mother more. Raised by her mother’s optimism, she looks at the world as one would family and friends. Taking each day with compassion and always treating everyone with the kindness her mother taught her to live by.

     When it came to leaving home, her emotions were laid bare, but she followed her sister’s strength. She looked to the other children around them, sadness clouded the train cart. In a moment where her sister had fallen asleep, Rose grabbed one of her books from her bag and slipped away from their seats. She went towards a young girl all alone in the corner. Sitting across from her, she set the book between them, not saying a word. Not pushing an interaction. She looked up from picking at her fingernails, her eyes puffy but face hard. Neither had she said anything, she sat analysing Rose who had expected this. Near the start of the journey, some boys had picked on her for the tangles in her long black hair. The girl was unsure if she could trust Rose, she could be mocking her too, maybe calling her illiterate and poor due to the state of her hair. She hadn’t known, she couldn’t have known the compassion Rose only had to offer.

     But her eyes, her eyes seemed kind. The girl thought that maybe she could be nice, her hesitancy caused her to glance at the book instead. Maybe it could offer insight into her intentions. The Hobbit. That was one of the girl’s favourite books. Rose notices her change in demeanour immediately, her eyes light up in the dull room lit only with lamps and the slight light from the evening sun behind the clouds.

     “Have you read it?”

     Her head jolted up, Rose smiled kindly, hoping to encourage her to talk. The girl looked down shyly and Rose took it as an opportunity to try again. “I, myself, am fascinated with the creatures. It truly is incredible to consider, don’t you agree?”

     Silence.

     A few families nearby chatter lowly, a quiet hum in the background. And then, a slight nod. But an answer.

     “I quite like the concept of elves. However, dragons would be quite interesting to see through that window.” The girl smiles as they look out the window, imagining Smaug himself flying alongside them. Breathing fire on the countryside and lighting the world up with the flames.

     “I like Bilbo because he likes staying home. I like staying home.” Sympathy crosses Rose’s features but they both continue looking out the window. Maybe if they continue imaging a dragon he may come and finish the war for once and all.

     They let time fly by them, stuck in their imagination of myths beyond their knowledge. Before a reflection of sandy blonde hair disrupted their imagination, a stark contrast to Rose’s chestnut brown and the jet black hair of the girl. “Rose.” The two turn their heads to her as she continues, “Time to come back to our seats, it shouldn’t be much longer.”

     Rose smiles and looks at the girl, “Did you bring one with you?” She lightly touches the book still left between them. The girl shakes her head, looking sad again. With one motion, Rose stands and pushes the book towards the girl, “I have another one, you take this.” Before the girl could refuse, the sisters were gone. Leaving the young girl, whose name was never shared, with a smile on her face, hugging the book close to her heart. A reminder of home, a reminder of her family.