Chapter Text
July 6th 1897. The man came by in the morning. Fiona Marshall had just swung open the front door, on her way to the local public school in search of a job. Standing with his fist raised to knock, the military uniform cleared his throat awkwardly before calmly speaking to the woman. She had sat down at the cramped seven-seat dining table and gripped her knees ever so tightly listening as the man put his hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t gone out to find the job that day, sobbing for the next. She had worn a new necklace too, though no one ever saw what was hanging off the chain.
October 2nd 1897. A different man dressed in the same uniform came to the house. This time Fiona was preparing lunch for her and her daughter, answering the door still dressed in the large white apron that covered the front of her skirt. She once again sat down and sobbed while the man placed a hand on her shoulder. But instead of two days, Fiona only cried for one. Her daughter didn’t understand, but maybe she would soon. Maybe her mother would explain why she was so sad.
She didn’t.
January 24th 1898. Fiona’s daughter was starting to hate the men in uniform. They came to her house, only to make her mother sad. They’d sit in the dining chairs, drink their most expensive tea, leave, then come back a couple months later. After they had left, Fiona moved to the kitchen and took three of the chairs to the cold room with all the meat inside. She’d shut the door, but her daughter could hear the unmistakable sound of wood cracking and splintering. She had never seen those chairs again.
This was the last time the uniforms came. It was the end of August, and Fiona’s daughter had finished packing for her day, about to walk out the front door to her first day of the new school year. It was almost like the first time, but instead of Fiona finding them, her daughter did instead. Taking the opportunity to give the uniforms a chip of advice, saying, “Don’t make mommy cry again.” The uniforms glanced at each other, mirroring confusion before the pre-teen stepped past them and onto the choppy, uncut grass strip next to the pavement.
August 31st was the day Virgie Marshall’s mother jumped out the window. In fact, Virgie had been walking home early, her stomach filled with unimaginable dread, and she was the one who found her mother, red on the pavement next to the tenement. She didn’t even recognise her at first, until she glanced up to her apartment’s top floor, of which the window was open and the lacy curtains were fluttering on the frame.
When Virgie walked into the apartment that afternoon another two chairs had been smashed on the cold tile next to the sink, covering the floor with sticks and splinters. In the sink itself, grey ashes covered the bottom, and beige photographs littered the counter. Virgie fooled them up and placed the remaining in her dress pocket. The fire box which had been left half-opened was overstuffed with chair legs and picture frames, now only producing thick black smoke that filtered through the lacy curtains and the window.
O top of the fireplace, sat a somehow untouched, clean but bulky envelope that jangled loudly as Virgie picked it up. Inside, five, perfectly shiny rectangles engraved with numbers. But Virgie looked closer.
Then her knees collapsed.
Then her face was no longer prettily made up.
Her face was no longer perfectly, evenly toned.
The floor was now covered in foul-smelling acid.
Virgie was empty.
The other rooms were intact. The master bedroom, that had been switched to contain the two rickety bunk beds still had the thickly made wooden chests sitting at the end of both. A wardrobe sat in one corner next to a bookshelf and another chest by the double-paned window. All their clothes were inside. So, Virgie did the one thing she could think of and gathered her brother’s most prized pieces of clothing - coats, shirts, overalls, pants, socks, scarves, and even a pair of sturdy shoes - and threw them into a large carpet bag.
Virgie’d taken her most practical clothes - farm pants, scarves, socks - and thrown them in too. And finally, her fathers favourite leather belt had been fastened around her waist.
One bag of clothing and another of food and necessities , Virgie made her way to the nearest train station, a ticket to Suffolk in hand. She did not blink as she stepped past her mother’s deformed body, slowly turning blue. She didn’t cry as she waited on the wooden bench for her train to arrive. Virgie didn’t even stare out the window as she traveled, instead staring blankly at the brown leather seat in front of her.
As the train screeched to a halt Virgie finally caught her breath, and it came through, out her teeth, shaken and unfulfilling.
The streets of Felixstowe were windier than London’s square paved roads. Salt wafted through the air. She did not stick around to familiarise herself, instead following the few signs toward the dock, filled with different kinds of boats, some stacked to the nines with cargo.
In the middle of the mess of ships sat a giant cargo ship, ugly, intrusive and exactly what Virgie needed. Nearing the boat, she tapped a friendly, local looking man with bright red boots smiling her sweetest. She felt sick.
“Would you happen to know where that big one is headed?” Her voice was silky smooth and so, so fake. But nonetheless, boots tipped his cap in a greeting and pointed ‘cross the horizon, speaking in an Irish accent.
“The cargo, eh?” Virgie nodded. “Ah, she’ll be taken away across the pond lass! I’ll be glad I ain’t on that one!” She let out another empty laugh.
“Goodness! Quite the trip then? When’s it leavin’ port?”
“In the wee hours of the mornin’ miss,” he glanced down at her in a curious manner, “May I ask why you’re curious miss?”
Virgie scratched the back of her scalp. Should she tell the truth? She didn’t think he’d be the kind of man to get her into trouble. She’d settle for implying it. “There ain’t nothin’ left for me here, sir.” His bushy eyebrows lifted, before he dipped his head.
“You’ll need some help I suppose. Meet me here in-” he checked his pocket watch, “- four hours.”
Virgie finally let a smile reach her eyes - a real smile. “I can’t thank you enough sir! I’ll see you tonight!” She almost went to skip down the dock, but stopped as he called her name.
“Miss?” She turned, “Good luck.”
The hours passed quickly, and soon no drop of sun was left in the sky, and any light provided by a moon or stars was stifled by the vast, expansive clouds. The night was silent, save for the creaking of old nails and wooden boards against the girl’s feet. It was so dark, Virgie was afraid she’d misstep and tumble into the icy water below.
She almost yelped when a hand fell on her shoulder, but muffled it with her own, instead pivoting in her heal.
He was a strange, tall, young man, clad in a warm fishing coat. As far as she could tell in the almost non-existent moonlight his hair was curly, and his face pasty as hers. “We goin’?”
“W-well I suppose… where’s boots?” She realised she hadn’t gotten the local man’s name.
“Boots? The old guy ya mean?” She nodded. “Not comin’. Your father or…?” Virgie shook her head bitterly. She knew exactly where her father was. “Well I’m supposed to be pulling in the gate now. It’s Joan to you. Here’s the plan-”
Virgie was squashed in between sloshing barrels, that smelled so, so bitter. She’d gagged when she’d gotten there, and a permanent queasy feeling had settled in the bottom of her stomach; that’s when she had realised she hadn’t eaten a thing since her light lunch at school earlier that day. Had that been today? It almost felt like weeks ago.
She was instructed to stay for the remaining hours, until the cargo ship finally left at one past midnight.
But soon enough, hours passed and the boat finally inched away from port, into the vast Atlantic. Then, a warm gaslight shone onto Virgie’s face, Joan appearing and tugging her up from her infinitely uncomfortable position. They’d walk down to the dining area and Joan would tell the crew Virgie had snuck on. It was a simple, effective plan, not many things could go wrong.
And nothing did. She had stumbled through the thin doorway, luggage in tow, Joan behind her. When the door slammed shut, heavy silence followed, and about fifteen men had varying looks of confusion spread across each of their faces. One man, sitting closest to the door leaned back on his chair, now less than a foot away from Joan. “Oi, kid, who’s the peach?”
“This is-“ He started, but Virgie quickly butt-in.
“I’m Virgie Marshall. I snuck on.”
The room was dead quiet.
Then the crew burst out in laughter.